Breathing
by SeungSeiRan
Summary: AU. When bonds of trust and friendship begin to take their toll, Hwoarang and Julia struggle to fix what they have and search for what they truly need. *Rewritten and reposted*
1. Abandonment

**I'd never thought I'd do this but I have :). First chapter's dedicated to the pwntastic Razer Athane 'coz she makes me blush whenever she tells me how much she loved this fic before it got taken down. Hopefully, this one's fated for a longer life than the original.**

**Guess where the hidden lyrics are and Ran shall glomp you with glee.**

**Disclaimer:**** I don't own Tekken. Namco does.**

* * *

**12 years ago**

It was too bad that he didn't notice what a beautiful night it was. It was one of those eerie full moon nights in winter when the light reflected off the snow and made it glisten like diamonds beneath his feet. He could feel them crunch under the soles of his trainers as he ran through dark, gnarled old trees which looked like stooped haggard witches in the absence of sunlight strong enough to light his way. Not that he cared anyway. He was too busy trying to avoid being spotted by his tormentors in the highly possible event that they caught up to him. Nine years old and already on the run, dodging crooked branches which tried to ensnare him by the hair within their twisted nooks and crannies.

Hwoarang panted. His breath appeared before him in the form of wispy white clouds which he ran into on his path to escape. It wasn't his fault that he drew trouble to him like flies to honey and he already mused many a time on that. Now was not the time for thinking though... he'd let instinct take over and had chosen flight instead of fight.

The path ended abruptly. He skidded to a halt and brushed long strands of black hair from light brown eyes. He could have burst into tears at that very moment were it not for the lake which lay spread before him. It was covered with ice with tiny bubbles of oxygen suspended in animation inside. Master Baek had warned him about the lake in winter. It was unpredictable and he'd told him not to venture on it alone lest the ice should give way and the boy drowned.

As much as knew his master was right, he really had no other choice now...

He took one careful step onto the seemingly solid surface. It didn't yield. He took another.

Safe.

Treading lightly, he made his way through to the middle where they couldn't possibly get him. The wilderness turned quiet as the heavy ponding of his heart ceased to a steadier rhythm. It was just him alone on the lake and he felt like a king. He could now take note of how the moonlight painted the trees silvery white, how the whole world seemed to stand still in his wake. Slowing down, he dared to smile.

Unfortunately, nothing was ever permanent.

They'd found him. Leering like hyenas, they approached and soon surrounded their smaller defenseless prey. It was no use running anymore, he was trapped. The boy would have to force down his trembling fear and be a man heading to battle. The wolves drew nearer until he could make out the bone-white of their teeth.

"Aww, looky here! The baby's gonna cry!"

"Nowhere to go, huh?!"

They began shoving him violently. "Oi! Where's that karate bullshit of yours? How ya gonna take us down without it?"

His small size helped him to struggle free for a moment and take up his stance further away from them. Depending on only the training he'd undergone with Baek for the last six months, he mentally prepared himself for battle. In his mind's eye, he pictured himself swooping below their flimsy attacks, taking them by surprise with a swift uppercut and a series of lightning-fast kicks to the head. And then, _one _by _one_, they'd fall to his feet like weak pawns in a game of chess, begging him to spare their pathetic lives. It would all be over in a matter of minutes, before they even knew it... he would claim victory. He _had _to.

Suddenly, they backed away. Had he appeared _that _threatening? Heh, all the more reason to stand and gloat...

A cracking noise snapped him out of his delusions of grandeur. In an instant, he was plunged into frigid cold water, gasping and spluttering for air. The ice had given way beneath him and he now struggled to stay afloat. He soon found that grabbing onto the surrounding ice was useless as it slipped through his every grasp and his mouth filled with water everytime he opened it to cry for help. As each second passed, his shivering body grew number. A thought crossed his mind... what was the point? Who'd miss him if he wasn't around anymore? Definitely not his parents... they'd abandoned him long ago. He closed his eyes and contemplated...

Maybe it would be better if he... just... let... go...

"HEY!"

A girlish voice startled him awake... and it _was _a girl. Perhaps no older than he was, blue mittens and thick maroon jacket...

"Here, grab this!"

One end of a long branch reached the edge of the hole he was in, a few mere inches away from his numb fingers. Under the influence of a burst of hope-filled adrenalin rush, he grabbed it between the palms of his hands and held on as she struggled to pull him out from the other end. She almost slipped from the weight for a moment but quickly regained her footing. After a series of seemingly never-ending tugs, he found himself flat on the ice lying on his stomach and quivering so frightfully that he couldn't feel anything but relief... and cold... so cold...

A mittened hand descended upon his pale icy cheek and stroked it cautiously. "You're freezing."

He would have answered were it not for his chattering teeth.

"Wait here a bit, I'll go call my Mum."

"W-w-wha... who're you?" he managed.

"Me? I'm Julia."

* * *

The thunder woke her up.

She sat up and felt her forehead. Judging from its coolness, the fever had already broken. Still, she hadn't shaken off that feeling of having lost something... or someone. Yes, she'd lost someone... she'd let him fly away to a war on the streets. Stupid selfish little prick, she fumed as she wiped the fast-forming tears of anger and misery from her dark eyes. He'd gone and made her feel upset for no fault of hers all over again. And to think she'd once saved him from that watery grave in the lake... stupid Hwoarang. As if he really knew what was coming to him...

Julia stopped herself before she could go any further. Then promptly failed to do so.

His bed was empty... his boots were missing from the place he always dumped them on... no loud heavy metal blaring out from his room...

He was gone.

The gang needed him, he'd told her. "I'm sorry, Julia... but they need me." he'd said before leaving.

The emptiness started to ache. So much that it echoed in her ears. 'Complicated' was too simple a word to describe their relationship. Far too intense for friendship, too distant to grow into lovers, somewhere caught in the middle, status undefined. But she'd tried her best to be what she could... as perfect as can be. Then again, what could come of perfection through practice when nobody was perfect?

Her eyes stung so much that she wanted to cry, even bawl out her agony.

She failed again.

"_Listen... it's the gang. They need me there."_

If only she could hate him with no remorse. If only the phone hadn't started ringing...

She swallowed down her misery and forced a smile into her voice.

"Hello."

"Hey, how's it going?" Christie asked.

"Fine."

"Nice try, Chang. How 'bout the truth for now? Feelin' okay?"

"Better than before."

_At least physically. Sort of._

"I didn't mean that... you know - "

"Yeah, I do. Don't worry, Chris. I'll be alright. Just... give it some time."

She heard the other woman sigh on the phone. "Okay then... you had me worried yesterday when Hwo left. I never expected it to affect you so much that you got that sick."

"Shock, I guess. I'm feeling a lot better now though."

"So she says," Christie countered with a hint of sarcasm. "And she stands there lying to my face because she thinks she can go it alone. But she fails due to blatant underestimation of her one and only bosom buddy."

Julia couldn't help smiling faintly for a while. "And perhaps she sheepishly admits you're right."

"Of course, aren't I always? Now just wait 'til our wandering vagabond shows up moaning on your doorstep. He'll be in for the beating of a lifetime."

"Woah there! You're the one who's going to be a mother in a few months. You just go and take care of yourself and the baby and let _me _handle the beating. He's my room-mate after all."

"Oooh, scary."

They both laughed.

"God, Christie. Just imagine... you guys will be parents soon... that's pretty big..."

"Yeah..."

Julia could literally feel the warm smile in her friend's voice and pictured her looking down at her pregnant belly, stroking it lovingly. Things had changed so much since those carefree, drama-filled years of high school. She could honestly say that she felt truly happy for the Brazilian woman. Christie had been through enough in the past to deserve all the happiness in the world. At least someone was content with what they had...

"So how're _you _doing?"

"Oh, fine. The little one's more friskier than usual today. I swear it's been spinning around and turning cartwheels in here all day."

"That's not surprising considering its parents are Capoeira masters."

"Haha, true."

"I'm feeling better already just thinking about it."

"No problem, hon. What are friends for? We're a lot like lovers, only with no strings attached."

* * *

The fury of the thunder had given way to gently falling rain. Likewise, the swelling tides of sorrow in her heart had trickled to a steady stream of quiet sadness. Now that he was gone, nothing else was left to do other than wait for morning to come from amidst the tears of the sky. When it rained, it poured and poured until every single emotion flowed out for her to see. The trouble came when you had to pick up the pieces and try to make sense out of them. Her problem lay in her fault of reading too deep into the water and over-analyzing everything which went wrong. Perhaps she should have majored in psychology...

Bit by bit, the emptiness leaked back inside.

Drip...

… Drop.

Drip...

… Drop.

Nothing lasts forever...

… Even if hearts can change.

The droplets streamed downwards, leaving clear tracks in the dirt-stained window. The city lights shone on whilst people rushed in to escape the downpour or wandered out to embrace it. How heavy your burdens seem when the rest are at joy. She remembered that he'd averted his eyes on saying goodbye.

Goodbye... such a cruel word.

"_I'm sorry, Jules... I'll be leaving now."_

She'd never even gotten to say anything to him. In solitude's company, she wondered if it would be entirely useless to write him a letter of sorts. Not that he'd ever read it but... she wondered anyway. The Letter He Never Read... heh, sounded like a title of a sad acoustic love song. Pity that she didn't know how to play a guitar like he did. But love songs weren't his thing, he didn't believe in love. So she didn't.

_Sometimes, I wondered why you stayed if you were so restless. You could've left when you had the chance. Or was it because of me? Did I ever hold you back from something you desired? You know, if it weren't for you, I would have never cared. And who are you to me but a careless little boy I once saved from drowning? If it weren't for that lost look that forever haunted your eyes, I would have never bothered to remember you._

With a steadying hand, she traced the clear tracks in the glass, watching them fall and hit the concrete to scatter into fifty other tinier droplets.

_Who am I to you but little more than an anchor to reality. Or am I a pale white butterfly flitting in and out as you see fit? Tell me, was I ever real to you? Don't illusions always leave the deepest scars. Just like the ones you left me without as much as granting me a strike to the face. You're better than that, I know. I'm one of the few that sees that, I suppose. I _know _you're not the thug you portray yourself as..._

In spite of herself, she wished that he'd call.

_So who are you anyway? Or do I already know that? Why won't you tell me so that we could finally stop going around in circles trying to guess each other's intentions? Anything to stop my head from spinning more than it already is. I'm sorry that I wasn't of any use. I'm sorry that I couldn't help you. Hurt feelings aside, I hope you're alright. If anything, I hope you stay that way for as long as you're 'needed'._

_Why can't I be the one you need, Hwoarang?_

_Tell me so that I can finally be at peace in my rest._

She lay her head down and whispered quietly to the night.

"Lie low, stay safe. Goodbye... and good luck."


	2. War Zone

**Nothing special about this chapter. Just reintroducing the awesomeness that is J :).**

* * *

Blood.

Staining the concrete ground, splashed on the dingy alley walls, collecting in pools around dried open wounds, filling his nostrils with a scent he'd never forget, coloring his vision in shades of red, sickly fresh wet and trickling from cut flesh.

Blood. Not even a slaughter-house could compare.

Hwoarang squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to breathe in the carnage. Four of his comrades down, knifed to death in a cowardly ambush by a rival gang. They lay at his feet, a mass of leather jackets and denim shirts, men in their early twenties and boys in their late teens. A passerby would have shaken his head at the state of youth nowadays and how they just kept on asking for trouble. Hwoarang didn't care. They had still been his friends. Once upon a time, they'd laughed, fought their battles together and swapped stories of hard-earned scars. They had been human; they had had lives to live. Lives which were now ripped to shreds by the hands of a lesser being.

No words could describe the heat rising in his blood at the moment. Rage, sorrow, guilt, pain, anguish pounded through his veins. Yet the expression painted on his face showed nothing but plain apathy.

"Fuckin' waste, if you ask me."

That was J for you. All statements and sarcasm. The man possessed as much emotion as a brick, steady and unrelenting. Hwoarang would have hated to admit it but he envied his fellow Korean. To repress so much emotion beneath that cool exterior was indeed a much-needed talent on the streets. If the redhead was fire, aggressive and quick to react, J was ice, taciturn, shrewd and calculating, always mentally prepared for the worse.

"How'd they get them so quick?"

"Hiding knives up their sleeves. Must've been the real thin types like those trench knives." J lit up the cigarette held between his roughened fingers and inhaled deeply. The smoke he whistled through a pursed mouth was carried off by a sudden breeze.

"Where'd they get those?"

"Dunno. Easy to get a knife like that… seen twelve year olds walking around with them recently."

"Bastards."

Out here, it was better to let out your feelings with either cocky laughter or unrelenting rage. Tears of any kind, whether they were from joy or sadness, were seen as a terrible weakness. He looked back on the memories they'd created and began to separate the emotions from the images until they were just two-dimensional snapshots framed in his mind. No pain, only bruises earned from victories, raucous cackling instead of laughter, hard booze and fast women instead of pleasure. If objectifying these images didn't make it less painful, then he'd force himself to forget them altogether.

Because, on the streets, remembrance equaled attachment.

Attachment to anything, especially the past, made you vulnerable.

Vulnerability made you weak.

And that weakness would eventually get you and your crew killed.

Hwoarang's gaze wandered to the peroxide silver hair of Hyun. Hyun was the reason he stood here at this very moment, the distant voice over the phone that had summoned him here, barely twenty, a promising artist with a secret passion for the mountains. Slightly low, roughened by cheap alcohol was a good way to describe the boy's voice.

He stopped himself. Now was not the time to grieve over lost souls.

"Hwoarang?"

He looked up and met J's solemn stare.

"The bodies."

He knew he would hate saying this.

"The police'll take care of them. If we take them, we'll end up attracting more unwanted attention. Best to lie low for now."

The short-haired man nodded. As they both prepared to take their leave, they took great care not to tread in the crimson pools stemming from their friends' wounds. Anything to feel a little immortal, anything not to let Death's touch penetrate them. Distant whines from police sirens told him that the lifeless bodies left behind him would be collected and disposed of in cold metal drawers in the city morgue. They'd be labeled as those stupid unfortunate kids who met their maker too soon.

Still, he couldn't help but whisper a humble apology to them before he left them to rot on their asphalt battlefield.

Stepping out of the alley and into the hushed streets felt like entering a different world. The air at dusk was pleasantly cool and smoky which helped take the edge off the shock. There was still no doubt in his mind that his dreams would be stained red tonight from the blood. It even seemed that the stench had seeped in between the fibers of his clothes, so strong that the images burned themselves into his eyes and made them sting from the heat. Guilt nudged him slyly, reminding him that he'd been too late. In the right place at the wrong time in fact. A fire had been sparked deep within him… no, he wouldn't rest until he could quench the fever that burned through him.

He noticed it before J did. The way their steps weren't at all coordinated. He'd been walking ahead so fast that it almost seemed like he'd run on ahead. J didn't seem to mind. Not a lot of things ruffled J's feathers unlike him. Hwoarang was the first to confess to himself that his temper was as red hot as his hair. A cheap comparison, he thought, but it did indeed earn him some nervous laughs from cheap company.

Somewhat like that dark-haired, sallow-faced angel in blue in the shadows.

"Same ol' stories." he muttered as the young prostitute crumpled beneath his eagle-eyed stare.

J answered with a nod. Simple as that.

* * *

The water was surprisingly steaming hot as it poured from the shower-head above him. Appearances definitely were deceiving. He could have sworn that this was just another dark little hovel that J had chosen to hole himself up for the time being. Perhaps shady apartments in this area had received a much-needed upgrade in his absence.

He moaned softly as the heat worked its magic on his stiff and sore muscles. Relaxing, he began to scrub himself clean from the dirt of travel and 'work'. There was sweat from the late spring heat and dust from the ashen streets at sunset. His mind drifting from today's events to a bleary, soothing stream of thoughts, he let himself lose track of the precious seconds that crashed down with every 'tick!' of the clock. As the water pushed his crimson locks over his forehead to cage his face, he lifted a heavy hand and smoothed it back on his scalp. He felt the familiar bump above his skull. Another childhood memory…

His father had been a terrible alcoholic. On every alternate day, the man would stumble in through the doorway, drunk as a tramp, slurring his words, his breath reeking of sweet rancid alcohol. He'd bump into tables and knock down vases on his way to collapse like a puppet without strings onto the couch in the living-room. Hwoarang recalled how he'd beckon him with a goofy lopsided smile to not tell his mother. His father would then pass out wherever he landed and Hwoarang would brace himself for the impending storm.

It would start with the sounds.

His father's snoring. The clicking of his mother's heels across the tiled floor of the hallway. The rapid pounding of his six year old heart as he hid inside the closet, under his bed or behind the curtains.

Next came the avalanche.

His mother's shriek would drown out the earlier quiet sounds into submission as she happened upon her drunken husband. Judging by what he heard, she would push his father onto the floor and scream at him until Hwoarang's ears would ring. He would hear her shouting names like 'bastard' and accusing him of 'cavorting around with that whore again'. None of this had made any sense to him as a child. All he knew was the yelling would ascend on both sides to a level that made him fear that his eardrums would burst from the pain.

Finally, he would hear his father's voice.

"YOU BITCH!!"

The slap echoed like a gunshot, right through the walls. He'd hear her cry in pain as the door slammed, trapping him inside with her.

This was the worst part.

Utter silence. A shudder would pass through his lithe frame as he tried to press the fear out of his body. The hairs on the back of his neck would prickle and his pulse would hammer through the skin of his wrists as each footfall of hers grew louder with each step she took. He would begin to pray for a miracle, anything to distract her, anyone to save him, anything to protect him from her.

A pause.

In a blink of an eye, he would feel himself being yanked from his cramped dark hiding-place. The light would make his eyes ache but that would be nothing compared to when the beating started.

She had raw red rage in her eyes.

"_Why didn't you tell me?!"_

"_I'm sor – "_

She'd strike him before he could get the words right out. Over and over until he'd pass out, still pleading with her to stop…

He gasped as the water suddenly turned cold. Turning the tap off, he swore under his breath.

_Damn them. Damn all of them._

* * *

After finishing with his shower and changing into a fresh set of clothes, Hwoarang found J in the makeshift sitting-room, browsing through a newspaper, smoking cigarette between his dry lips. Shaking some stray jet-black hair out of his eyes, his friend tossed him a paper-plane with writing on it.

"Welcome gift from our old friend Choi."

"That so?"

Hwoarang caught the plane with one hand and fell back on a nearby fading red sofa. He failed to hide a wince as the old springs jutting out through the fabric bounced against his back. Ignoring J's smirk, he unfolded the paper, skimmed through the contents and then promptly tossed it aside with a snort. Some leopards never changed their spots. Or maybe hyenas would have made for a better comparison in this context…

"I thought as much." J agreed, taking another puff.

"Not to mention his spelling's even more hilarious than I remembered. That cracked fuck's still got it in for me."

"No change there."

"So what's he on my ass about now?"Hwoarang went on, rubbing the drowsiness from his eyes. "Was it the time I ran over his toe in the market? Or the time when _his_ blonde slut made a pass at _me_? Or – "

"The time when you took down five of his thugs outside in that cul-de-sac."

"So the bastard decides to take down four of our men? Fuck him."

Hwoarang pitied the poor kids who wanted in on the toughest gangs because they wanted to look hard. Sure, the endless supplies of liquor, women and adrenalin were a turn-on. There were nights of crazy hedonistic debauchery and days where violence seemed so pretty and perfect in its brutality. See the blood spewing out from the corner of your opponent's mouth as he kisses dirt? Hear his pathetic groans and the cheers of your crew behind you? Smell that girl's cherry lip-gloss and mint smile as she leans back on your bed? Feel that sense of absolute power as it screams for victory in your head and makes it spin so fast that you feel like a fuckin' god? That's what it's like at first.

But what it really is, is a game. It's a game where only the cunning survive and the naïve get duped into becoming pawns on their own turf. Everyone's after the power because power means you stay alive. And when you get finally do get that power sitting in the palm of your hand, it all depends on who's gonna wrest it from right under your nose. So then you get so careful that you turn to paranoia for protection. Your friends can turn into enemies at the smallest hurt, your rivals can become your allies for the right price. The game continues, a never-ending circle, the pawns becoming kings, the kings getting struck down by their own knights. Bloodthirsty vicious dog-eat-dog world of cold lies and calculated backstabbing.

Once you're in, you weren't getting out anytime soon. That is, only if you were lucky.

Or dead.

Better watch out before they snatch the carpet from under your feet.

His head still reeling from the tenacity of his musings, the redhead reached out for the coffee J had got him and took a gulp. The bitter taste made him grimace wryly.

"Your coffee sucks, man."

The dark-haired man leaned back in his chair, satisfied. "You've gotten pickier."

"It sucks."

"I guess your girlfriend makes it better than I can."

"I don't have a girlfriend. Unless you mean the chicks I dated earlier who couldn't cook shit – "

"The pictures on your phone say otherwise." J replied, holding up the blade-thin black phone. Instantly reacting, Hwoarang snatched it back from him, not succeeding in suppressing the rush of heat to his face.

"What the - ?! Ever heard of a commodity called privacy?!"

"So she's improved your vocabulary too."

"She's my friend, J. My room-mate. That's it."

"Whom you like to photograph in your spare time."

"Shut up."

"Test model for your camera phone, I assume."

"I said, shut up! We were just fooling around."

"I can imagine."

"Not _that _way, dumbass."

"Whatever you say."With that, J yawned behind his palm. "Love to argue more but it's getting late. Your mattress is over there," he pointed behind the sofa. "I'll see ya in the morning. Don't stay up all night drooling over her pictures."

"Screw you, J."

"You wish, faggot."

* * *

J's warning proved to have some weight behind it.

He couldn't take his damn fuckin' eyes off her.

Here was one where she sat on a chair, sulking after he'd wrestled the TV remote from her. In another one, she'd just come inside with her hair in a mess after she'd walked home through a gale. He liked the ones where she didn't look quite as perfect as everyone thought she was… he knew better… her pouty side was especially endearing.

He flicked his mobile shut when he realized he was getting way ahead of himself.

Of course, Julia was perfect. That was the reason why they could never last in the first place. With all the nagging and bickering that went on between them, it was no wonder that he set his sights on lower goals for himself. He never did expect Julia to come down to the level of the girls he'd dated in the past. She was a good listener, she made some pretty impressive comebacks for his crude jokes and no one could see through his moods like she could. Surely her kind heart and sense of compassion could lead her to someone more deserving of her love. He had a war to fight and he knew better than to taint her with the blood that would soon be spilt upon his hands.

Simply put, she was an angel. Angels didn't belong on battlefields.

But, damn, he did wish that he'd stop wishing they did.


	3. Coping

**My longest update in a long time. Hope you enjoy and please don't take the racist jokes seriously. It was all for fun and you're welcome to joke about my ethnicity if you feel like it.**

* * *

The rain lashed at the window like it wanted in on the warmth inside the restaurant. The place was called _Iris_ which seemed like a testament to the tastefully placed arrangements of miniature bouquets serving as both décor and namesake. Fragile, dainty violet petals which threatened to crumble if he so much as stroked them. Inside here, it seemed so cozy, leaning against the mahogany wood panels and rich brown leather upholstered lounge. Nothing too fancy or ritzy but enough to garner a respectable name in town. It was only the irises which had Steve Fox thinking about his past and replaying events which had just lasted seconds…

Violet and purple signified many things. Colors of monarchs, royalty and nobility, revitalization and vibrancy. It made him wonder if these were indeed the wonders that a blind man would want to experience. A dash of color in a world of darkness. Something to believe in, to feel alive with the world around him.

"Matt?"

The blind owner and manager of the restaurant cum pub, Matt Guarini, tilted his head to show he was listening.

"I've always wondered about the cause of your little iris fetish here."

Even though Steve couldn't see those russet eyes behind the black shades, he knew they were smiling. He could feel it.

"Simply due to their significance, Steve."

"I guessed as much. An explanation is all I ask."

"I got the idea when I was in college and I had a girlfriend who was really into European history. We would have these long, and I'll admit, interesting talks about Henry VIII and the storming of the Bastille and all that sort of stuff. Anyways, we broke up because she moved to Dusseldorf and I was left heartbroken – "

Steve didn't bother suppressing a snicker.

" – and alone. So while drawing up a plan for a restaurant to take my mind off things, I remembered the time she told me about the fleur-de-lis, a French symbol of monarchy. I liked the idea of the vision of power and authority at the time. Very… _Count of Monte Cristo_. You've read it?"

"Yep."

"Odd. I thought you were a jock. Blue eyes, blond hair, all brawn, no brains. No offense meant."

"Offense taken. Just because you're blind doesn't make you a wizened old sage either."

Matt tapped his cane against the floor thoughtfully. "Well, I'm getting there. Now back to my story. The fleur-de-lis symbolized something which everyone thinks they have at one point; hidden power. There's nothing more captivating or dangerous as that. If used wisely, you can ascend to the top of the food chain and wreak havoc on those who tried to destroy you, just like our hero Edmond Dantés. If placed in the wrong hands, you have nowhere to run."

The blind young man ran his bronzed hands through strands of ruddy brown hair. "It's a fascinating concept."

"Yawn."

Both men looked up at the speaker, a girl with short unruly brown hair and a wary smirk on her face. "What? A lady has every right to speak her mind."

"That may be true, Asuka. Only problem is that I don't happen to see _any _ladies around at the moment. Do you?" Steve replied with his own trademark smirk. He was almost met with a damp dishcloth which he managed to just dodge in the nick of time.

"Jerk. Haven't you got anything better to do than sitting around and talking about flowers… of all things."

"It's the twenty first century, Missy," Matt turned to the direction of her protesting voice. "A guy can talk about flowers and clothes without being executed for homosexuality. Besides, you were supposed to be hard at work."

She pouted. "There's no one to serve. Unless you count the slacker here," She glared at Steve who smiled back innocently before gesturing with her thumb towards the figure by the window. "Or Mr. Brightside over there."

"JIN!" Matt's unmelodious shout was accompanied by a sharp thump of his cane which made everyone except the forlorn recipient of the message wince. "You're the only one out of our group whom I've never seen drunk. Go on and order a beer!"

The brooding Japanese barely flinched. "Technically, you haven't actually 'seen' anyone drunk."

"Aw, you know what I mean. Doesn't mean I can't hear you when you are though. When people get drunk, they start to slur their sentences and sing off-tune to the most ridiculous songs possible. I've had a guy in here who'd start howling out _Das Deutschlandlied_ every time he had more than five shots of the single malt whiskey. That's the German national anthem for your information. And I've heard Hwoarang belting out a truly horrible rendition of _Cat and Mouse_, that song by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. Terrible song to sing when you're as drunk as a rockstar. Guess that's what you get when you share an apartment with Julia Chang. Her taste is bound to rub off on you."

Steve immediately remembered. "Speaking of Hwoarang, anyone heard from him lately?"

A hollow silence fell upon them. For a few seconds, the only sounds that echoed off the wooden paneling were the splashing of the raindrops on concrete. A few blocks away, a car screeched on the slick asphalt.

"I guess not."

"He's a jerk." declared Asuka.

"As are all men." Matt sighed mockingly. The teenage girl glared at him annoyed.

"Well, he _is_. He left without warning just so that he could run around with his stupid gang. Not even a phone call since so Jules goes and gets sick from worrying. Literally."

"I'm sure he has his reasons. Hwoarang's not a bad guy."

"Of course," Jin spoke up. "He's only an idiot from a broken home. Aren't we all?"

"I suppose that's one way to put it."

"Then more importantly," Steve cleared his throat. "How's Julia coping?"

Asuka paused before she replied softly. "Doing just that, I guess. Coping."

"She'll be alright. She's a tough one. Even if she doesn't appear so." Matt nodded his head at an attempt at reassurance. Outside, the rain seemed to have subsided for the time being. Whether it would remain sunny for the rest of the day was a question of chance.

"Something tells me that we have a visitor."

"Matt, it's only just stopped raining. We'll be lucky if – "

"Yo." Eddy Gordo sauntered in with a masculine grace that had been cultivated from years of Capoeira training. Asuka stood gaping as the two other men except Jin greeted the Brazilian with a nod and a smile. The Japanese's stare remained fixated on the water droplets snaking down the window-panes.

"Matt! How'd you – "

"Tsk, tsk, how many times must I remind you of my psychic prowess? I can sense anything from what my customer's just had for dinner to the brand of lingerie that you're wearing."

"Arrgh, you… Steve, do you know how - ?"

The Brit grimaced and raised his hands in defeat. "I gave up long ago. If he says he's psychic, he's psychic."

"Eddy! How's it been?" Matt aimed a high-five which completely missed its mark, almost smacking Eddy in the face. Amused, the latter grabbed his flailing hand in a hearty handshake.

"Been a while, Guarini."

"I'll say. Christie's not with you, I take. Didn't hear the usual greeting of 'Hey, how's my favorite-pervert-posing-as-a-blind-guy?' when you came in."

"Correct. As usual. She wasn't feeling too good in the morning so I decided to save her some cooking and get some take-out for the two of us."

"In other words, the raging hormones got out of control and you wanted to get away for a bit?"

Eddy sheepishly scratched the back of his head. "Uh, yeah, that too."

"Are you blushing?"

"You can't tell?"

"Oh yeah, black guys can't blush. Isn't that what you said once?" He finished with a wink. Asuka shook her head in disproval.

"Racist." she dubbed him.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are! You once asked if I could make sushi for dinner because I was Japanese."

"And you couldn't, thereby disproving that myth."

Feeling devious, Steve added, "There's not much of anything that Asuka _can _cook."

"Shut up, Steve!"

"There you go again, breaking yet another myth! So much for Asian women being the epitomy of subservience, eh?" Matt interrupted, high on the shared companionship. "See? I'm not racist, you just get all types of people on each end of the spectrum. For instance, I'm half Italian therefore I must be good in bed. Which, judging from my track record, is true. And then again, I'm half Polish so I must be stingy. Which I am not."

"You _are _stingy."

"Don't scowl, Asuka. You'll get your pay-raise when you deserve it. So as I was saying, there are two types of people. The ones who don't conform to a stereotype of any sort and the ones who can't help but do so. You get guys like Steve who isn't a strait-laced bore like the Brits you see on those TV detective shows – "

"I'm part Irish too, you know."

" – and you get drunk just like one. And then you get guys like Asuka's cousin, Samurai Jack over there. Ah, he'd do the feudal era proud now, wouldn't you, Kazama-dono?"

Jin obliged him with a smoldering glare but remained fixed in his place. "Don't rely solely on anime to improve your Japanese."

"Which is why I've been watching subtitled episodes of GTO as well. Damn, who knew that the life of a teacher could be that dramatic…"

"… Baka."

"Try something a little more original next time. I'm learning how to swear in all sorts of languages these days. Everything from _shibal nom_ and _sai daqui_ to _konojoo nashi _and _ich hab di in bud_. Hang on a sec… someone's missing. Does anyone know of any Native American insults I could hurl?"

"Why don't you ask one?" Jin pointed to a familiar figure scurrying to get through the thickening rain storm. "She's right across the street. But oh yeah… you can't see anything."

A spark of something like anticipation triggered a dormant restlessness in Steve. For all the world couldn't see, he may as well have seen an old friend walking across the road. That was only half correct; there were certain emotions that not even the deepest of friendships could recreate.

Asuka had already rushed to the window before him. "How come she's not stopping by?"

"Then I'll go out and get her." Before she could protest, Steve was pulling on his coat and on the verge of stepping out.

"Umbrella's behind the door. The green one with the wooden handle." Matt reminded him as he was about to rush out. Steve nodded and muttered a hurried 'Thanks' after he did what he was told to. On opening the door, the rain greeted him with light joyful splashes to his face and neck. Not bothering to watch out for speeding cars, he bounded across the water-filled road to catch up with the missing Native American woman.

Inside, Matt mused out loud. "Steve should be more careful. He could get hurt easily."

"Yeah, you should've seen the way he just barged through the road like – "

"Oh, I didn't mean that, Asuka. Believe it or not, there are worse things in life than physical injuries."

* * *

The first time Steve had met Julia in high-school, he'd been struck by the length of her hair. At a time when it was the height of the short choppy cut with neon highlights for girls, she'd had her hair kept in its natural waist-length dark brown state. Nothing about that had changed much since then. The same long dark braid swished from side to side as she rushed through the impending storm.

"Julia! Jules!"

She turned and faced him through rain-splattered glasses, giving her a little-girl-lost charm. Quite adorable really, even with that concerned frown. "You shouldn't run across the road when it's wet. You could have slipped and broken your ankle."

"And hello to you too." Steve released the catch on the umbrella so that it opened with a dramatic spring. "No need to thank me for this either. Courtesy of your friendly neighborhood blind restaurant owner."

The frown was soon replaced by a gentle smile. "Alright, I'll take that back. But still, you should know better than to put your life at risk, even for a few seconds."

"Well, what can I say? Some people are just worth the risk."

"Uh-huh. Tell that to me when you're lying bleeding on a stretcher."

"Wicked. That's what I call gratefulness." He laid a hand over his heart in a pretend display of hurt, complete with trembling lip and wide innocent eyes. It felt nice to finally hear a laugh from her. A quiet one but still genuine. As usual, his wit hadn't failed him. If he tried, he could have a whole room of people giggling and clutching their sides in laughter-induced aches. If he wanted, he could have reeled in any woman with a grin and a wink.

What made it worthwhile foregoing all those was when he made Julia smile.

"I heard you were ill. Feeling any better?"

"_Much _better, thanks. Although my doctor would have a fit if she saw me going out to the grocery in this weather."

"I'll walk you there then." He held the forest green umbrella so that it sheltered both of them from the pelting droplets. "It's been pretty unpredictable for the past few days. It'll probably be blazing hot tomorrow. Still, I'm pretty much used to rain. You should check out London in December. Absolutely bloody dripping from the buildings to the footpaths."

"In Arizona, it's the opposite. Rain is considered a blessing from the spirits. My mother once dragged me out during a storm to dance."

"Sounds like fun. I'd have loved to see that."

"I was five. Where were you around then?" she replied playfully.

"Scraping my knees in an empty playground and hoping not to get pummeled by the local yobs."

"Yobs?"

"The British equivalent of the working class. Although, nowadays it's used more to describe hooligans and layabouts. You Yanks may prefer the term 'punks' to avoid some confusion there."

"Last time I checked, punk was a subculture as well as a form of music."

"Hwoarang into that sort of thing?"

For a moment, she lapsed into an uneasy silence and he immediately felt like giving himself a shot to the gut for making that inquiry. Fortunately, she recovered almost as quickly.

"I don't think so. Hwoarang's a loyal metal-head. With a little bit of progressive and alternative thrown in for good measure."

He chuckled softly. "I could've guessed that by myself. We never did agree on music. What about you, Jules? What do you like? Nu metal with a dash of hip-hop?"

"Yeah, I'm a Linkin Park groupie. Yay for Chester." Her sarcasm was punctuated by a bout of giggles. "Nah, I just listen to anything. As long as it fits my mood at the moment. I'm not really that picky about my music choices."

"That's good. I think that it's great to have a broad taste in interests. You don't lose out on a lot that way."

"Mm hm."

A crack of thunder interrupted the rhythmic patter of the rain. The sound made them both freeze in their tracks as if they'd been struck. On cue, the sky darkened once more and they continued onwards, slightly relieved.

"Never did like lightning." he mentioned.

"Is that so?"

"Yep. I once knew a bloke who got struck while he was unlocking his car in a parking-lot."

The wince was evident in her voice. "Ouch. Did he make it?"

"Yeah. Unfortunately, he also ended up with some permanent nerve damage."

She shook her head sadly. "Poor him. My fever doesn't seem so bad now that I think about it."

"That still doesn't mean you shouldn't take care of yourself."

"I couldn't help that happening in the first place." A melancholic edge crept into her tone. "I'm sorry. I was literally worried sick…"

When her voice faltered, he hoped that she wouldn't cry. Without realizing it, he had been drawn to her and gotten himself entangled in her emotions. Maybe this was only an ache that came with deep friendship. Maybe he was just being over-sensitive, maybe there was such a thing as being too protective of a friend's feelings, maybe brotherly attachment was more than a little overrated. Or maybe…

_Just maybe…_

"He'll be alright, Julia."

"That's what I keep telling myself."

"And you'll be alright too."

"That's what everyone else keeps telling _me_."

"Actually, that's what we _all _agreed on earlier."

"You did?"

"Yeah. You're smart, resourceful, tough, reliable and you can kick some serious arse if you need to. What's not to like?"

A stifled peal of laughter from behind her hand made his heart feel lighter. _She'll be okay…_

"Are you mocking me, Miss Chang?" he asked with feigned annoyance.

"I liked the way you said 'ass'."

"Arse?"

"Like that!" Her cheeks glowed pink with mirth to his secret joy.

"It's a British accent, love. Everyone likes it."

The neon yellow sign of a grocery brought them back to the rain-drenched streets and slippery pavements. Disappointment flooded into him as he remembered that he would have to say goodbye to her at this point. Then again, perhaps he'd see her sooner than either of them expected… if his luck would have it.

" 'Kay, here we are. Thanks for walking me, Steve."

"My pleasure, Jules. Wait a bit," He folded the umbrella and handed it over to her. "You'll need this for the walk back."

"But what about you?"

He held out one roughened hand and let a few drops of falling rain collect in it. "A little water never hurt anyone, didn't it? Besides, if I died of pneumonia tomorrow, I'm sure I could trust you with my funeral arrangements."

"Okay, leave it to me. I'll make sure it's white roses on your wreath instead of the traditional red."

His eyes twinkled momentarily as he raised his hand to wave. "As I see that I shall be in good hands, I think I'll take my leave right now."

"See ya, Fox. Watch out for the lightning."

"Will do. Don't forget to return the umbrella to Matt."

As she watched him wade through the puddles on his way back, she felt the weight of another burden more precarious that the one she already carried. Many had praised her ability to understand the thoughts and emotions of others she'd barely known. They called it her 'gift', the strength she had in reading into a character and his actions. What nobody knew of was the pain it caused her to walk this tight-rope of fragile emotions and egos. More often than not, the cost of healing one's shattered soul was the internal breakdown of her own. Too much empathy was her plight. To feel the pain and turmoil of another was her curse…

She watched him walk away and she sighed quietly.

There was only one thing worse than being in love with someone who couldn't possibly love you as much.

It was to have someone else love you far more than you could ever love them.

* * *

**Glossary:**

_**Baka (Japanese) – Idiot. **_

_**Shibal nom (Korean) – Fuck you.**_

_**Sai daqui (Portuguese) – Fuck off.**_

_**Konojoo nashi (Japanese) – You ain't got no balls.**_

_**Ich hab di in bud (Yiddish) – Go to Hell.**_

_**GTO – Great Teacher Onizuka. A popular Japanese drama.**_


	4. Paper Cranes

In typical couldn't-care-less Hwoarang fashion, he'd gone and left his laundry behind. In typical goody-two-shoes Julia fashion, she'd gone ahead and got it done for him anyway, that jerk. Consequently, she'd felt both bad and annoyed that she was continuing to blame him for her less-than-angelic mood swings. Not that anyone ever knew of them because of her more-than-decent acting skills which made her wonder why she hadn't aspired to more leading roles in high-school drama activities rather than the less-than-innocuous role of an extra in the background until she remembered she'd also suffered from more-than-advanced stage fright.

The combination of all these streams of thought and less-than-colorful adjectives had also resulted in a headache of epic proportions.

_Alright then… just get through the day as best as you can. _

Shaking her head gently to clear her mind of sympathetic friends and absent almost-lovers, she picked up the plastic wicker-basket filled with folded clothes fresh from the dryer.

_Keep yourself busy, that's the best way to go about things._

Biting her bottom lip unconsciously, she nudged his bedroom door open with her elbow and staggered in with the basket perched on her hip like an infant. The place seemed cleaner already in his wake. Less junk on the floor, more dust on untouched surfaces. She would have to run a cloth over those soon or else…

Or else what? It wasn't like she was his goddamn wife or something.

She spat it off her tongue like it was an unwanted seed. Well too bad for him. The world wasn't his to command and even if it was, she'd definitely want no role in it. To have to bend over and bow down to the whims of a mere _man_ was a fate fit only for a harlequin woman with red lips and fish-net stockings…

Okay, so maybe she was overdosing on her pent-up frustration.

Still, there was a bright side to everything. No more greasy pizzas for dinner, no more watching retarded comedy flicks, no more being snuck up on and poked at, no more disgusting sex jokes, no more laughing so hard that her sides ached from exhaustion… no more smiling at the silly things he did… no more goofy one-liners…

"Screw this."

His clothes were promptly dumped on his bed and she was soon jabbing keys on the telephone, desperately hoping that she'd be able to reach a certain cell-phone number. She held the receiver up to her ear and listened impatiently for the creased electronic ring-tone.

_**Ring ring.**_

_Come on, Hwoarang._

_**Ring ring, ring ring.**_

_For Heaven's sake…_

_**Ring ring.**_

_Please answer your damn phone._

_**Ring ring.**_

_Please?_

A series of beeps greeted her as the line was automatically disconnected.

* * *

Like Christie, Asuka had her own unique brand of optimism. It didn't need plush sunshine and sparkles to shine in the dark, neither was it the type that was so overwhelmingly fake that it was sickening. It shone more through her dogged determination to never yield to whatever weakness which plagued her surroundings as well as a wry sense of humor which was, at times, strikingly similar to her older cousin's. But unlike Jin, the world could be changed for the better, even if it was through one fist-fight at a time. And thus was the philosophy of Asuka Kazama. Think fast, act faster.

Julia allowed herself to smile as she watched her younger friend saunter through her doorway, short brown hair as unruly as ever, feet encased in a weathered pair of trainers. A splash of disorder was always welcome in a sadly predictable world.

"I take it that you're off today?"

"Yep. I need at least one day away from my boss the Slave Driver."

"Knowing Matt, I can understand your plight." She reached out and plucked an abandoned leaf from its loft on Asuka's head. "Talk about using a physical handicap as a weapon."

The Japanese girl yawned and stretched out, each sinewy fiber of muscle marking its presence beneath her skin. "Tell me about it. You can't tell a blind guy to shut the hell up _because _he's blind. And I hate how he's always got an answer for _everything _complete with that… that… 'annoying' is too weak a word to describe that smile of his, argh."

"Poor thing." Julia sympathized. "Still, at least you're earning some extra money, right? That's always a good thing."

"Yeah, I guess." Asuka exhaled loudly, releasing some of her suppressed irritation. "I'm saving for college, a car and some new Chuck Taylors. How bad can that be?"

"_And _you're learning to keep a lid on your famous temper."

"And I'm… hey! You're one to talk! _You _were the one who pushed Hwoarang into the pool in high-school!"

"I was giving Christie a hug because she was having a bad day and she needed one. He just _had _to walk in and start making slurping noises behind us so I…"

"Lost it?" At least the girl seemed impressed.

"Yes. To put it that way."

"_Sweet. _That splash was awesome and the best part was when he came up spluttering like a dying fish," Asuka stopped to perform her best imitation of Hwoarang trying to speak as his head had bobbed up from the chlorinated water. "W-wha - …urgh… what the f-f-fuck – bleargh – was that, Jules? I… agah.., ah, fuck this!"

The memory of his eyes wide open in shock behind soaked strands of scarlet hair was enough to make her crack. Damn, it felt great to laugh for a genuine reason.

"I almost forgot about that. Maybe I should've given him a shove on the way out before he left."

"Somehow, I doubt that would have stopped him…"

Reality struck down hard. Of course, he was gone, nothing could change that now.

"_Why do you have to leave right now? Can't you just think about it first?"_

"_I already have…"_

"_But…"_

"_Would you just stop it, Julia?"_

"You okay?"

"Quite."

"So how come I don't think so?"

"Maybe you're wrong. Maybe I'm confused."

The cautious touch on her hand brought her back to today. Today, in her apartment, with Asuka by her side, without him to distract them.

Where was the sense in that?

"He'll be alright, you'll see." The younger girl assured her. "He can take care of himself, we all know that. And so can you."

"Not you too, Asuka."

"Well, it's true. You're not giving yourself much of a chance."

"I'm trying but it's not as easy as it sounds." She gulped down a small sob. No space for weakness here. "You're beginning to sound like everyone else. I'm sick of promising that I won't go and drown myself in the shower. Why can't anyone see that I'll do fine in my own time?"

Asuka's silence offered her some solace. Silence was that somber little girl adorned in black lace in the corner of the room. Silence was a fog which arrived when temperatures dropped to single digits on thermometers. Her mind buzzed with ideas that would never find words, a distraction to keep her eyes clear and dry from the problems crashing over the helm. The hum of activity was nothing more than an illusion of activity to keep her thinking of matters which she could have a say in, even if it only was in her own head. Anything to keep her from falling apart from the outside. Strange and melancholy machinations of her mind and heart which didn't cushion the pain but at least made it less real.

"Slow down there, Jules. You're trying to pick yourself up before you fall."

"Huh?"

Asuka nodded, as if to reaffirm her belief in what she'd noticed. "Trust me, I've seen that look before. You just want to show everyone that you're doing fine so that no one will worry about you unnecessarily, right?"

Julia stared as her friend strolled over to the sunlit window. Outside one the ledge, a plain brown sparrow hopped down on its perch for a few moments of rest. Asuka had once told her that her name meant 'soaring bird' in her native tongue. Julia had no idea what her name meant except that most people thought it nice and attractive. 'Asuka' had an exotic touch in its intonation as she rolled it off her tongue and replayed it mutely. Too vivid and colorful for a common sparrow.

"You know, there's this legend in Japan, about the crane. They're supposed to be symbols of long life so people think that by folding paper cranes, you get to enjoy a longer life. If you folded a thousand of them, you'd get a chance to have any one of your wishes granted. Like to be cured of a disease or for prosperity in a business. That sort of thing."

Origami cranes. How could a thousand scraps of paper amount to anything in the end? Perhaps Asuka had read her thoughts for she continued after the sparrow flapped its wings and took off from the concrete ledge.

"Sounds crazy? I thought as much when I first heard it. But somehow, a story works wonders where no medicine can. My grandmother used to tell me that stories heal whatever medicine numbs…"

"The soul."

"That's right." The teen murmured softly. "I think my grandma would have liked you, Jules. Too bad she died eight years ago."

* * *

**A year ago**

Interestingly, the thumping beats were not only affecting her ability to study, they were also responsible for inducing a restlessness in her that she was finding increasingly difficult to contain. So far, she'd managed to sketch a flower, a horse, a girl with long banana-curved pig-tails and a series of eight-pointed stars. She'd read an article a few days ago on the significance of doodles. Eight-pointed stars indicated an ability to concentrate well on the task at hand. How ironic, considering she should have been halfway through her essay due next week for her _Introduction to Anthropology _class. Instead, she'd been forced to make sense of the muffled screeching guitar riffs and roughened vocals of whomever Hwoarang happened to be listening to at full blast across the hallway.

She didn't mind his interests nor did she want to interfere with them but enough was enough if she wanted to make it through this semester…

Gathering her composure, she marched across the hall and rapped smartly on his bedroom door.

No response. Very likely that he hadn't heard above the racket.

She tried again, her knuckles striking harder against the wood.

Nothing, zip, zero.

Third time's the charm, she assumed with her patience wearing thin. The crashing symbols were literally storming through her eardrums. She could always blame him if she went deaf from overexposure to thrash metal.

Fourth time around, she had her teeth grit and her fist poised above the door, ready to smash a hole in if he didn't bother opening it…

One…

Two…

Three…

… He had her by the wrist as soon as he released the catch on the lock and burst upon her in an explosion of guitar wails, smashing drum infernos and heavy ragged breathing. The noise forced her voice down her throat so that she stood limp and breathless from the impact.

An elliptical silence presided over their hushed forms until he chose to drop the word.

"What?"

She could do little else but pull the plug on her vocals _and speak._

"Could you keep it down?"

"What?" he repeated, sounding less taciturn and more clueless. Feigning calm and controlling the spurt of annoyance, she rephrased her request.

"Keep the music down. It's getting on my nerves."

"The song or the music in general?"

Sighing in exasperation, she rolled her eyes. "Both. How am I supposed to study when some guy keeps screaming 'Master of Puppets' a few meters away from my room?"

"Um, so give up and go with the flow?" he quipped in an attempt to sound cute and quirky.

"No… a bit of consideration for others won't bite you, Hwoarang. I'm trying to work."

"But it's…" He glanced swiftly at the neon green alarm clock on his bedside table. "Ten thirty-two?! Who works around that time?!"

"Ahem, _I _do. Because unlike _some _people, I prefer keeping my grades above C-level. Pun intended."

"What the hell…" He left his accusation unfinished, leaning into the doorway and scowling at the scuffed end of his shoe. "Well… what'm I supposed to do then?"

"How about turning down the music and enjoying how nice and soothing it sounds that way." This wasn't a simple request anymore. It was an order, an imperative that begged to be challenged and not to be disobeyed.

"Uh-uh, you don't listen to metal with the volume turned down. That's like eating warm ice-cream." The Korean shook his head in malicious contempt. "Just not cool, Jules."

"Then listen to your records in the morning."

"Who fuckin' listens to Metallica in the morning?!"

"I do," she answered icily. "Why don't you try it?"

Turned out that she'd hit the right nerve. His light brown eyes narrowed to slits, a frozen fire glowing within, frigid venom spewing in their pools. She folded her arms across her chest, prepared for the inevitable barrage of poisonous barbs directed her way. They both stood their ground, eye to eye, fire and ice, a battle of the greater will.

"Because – "

A long lean finger jabbed her hard and direct in the chest, right below her collarbone.

" – nobody listens – "

Jab.

" – to Metallica – "

Jab.

" – or Motorhead – "

Jab.

" – or Dream Theater – "

Jab.

" – or Deftones – "

Jab.

" – or Mudvayne – "

Jab.

" – in the fuckin' morning."

She rubbed at the sore spot furiously, still returning his glare. "Oh right, so that means you can't because everyone else can't? So much for standing out in the crowd, Blood Talon. I thought you had a little more spunk in you."

"Spunk?"

Snorting in mock disgust, she prodded further.

"It means you've got no guts, Hwo. Or in your case," She stood up straight and tall, arching her back to the best of her 5'5" stature. "No balls."

A flash seemed to light up his eyes for a moment but he chuckled through her jeers. "Right, so I suppose I gotta learn to loosen up more if I need more 'spunk'."

Julia sensed the mischief behind his words and contemplated an alternate plan of action. However, she realized he already beat her to it when five long digits appeared at each of her sides and proceeded to tickle her through her t-shirt, at the place where she hated to be touched most.

"Gotcha!"

"Hey! Let… haha…"

Spurred on by her weakness, he dug in more aggressively, devilish smirk infuriating her further as she unsuccessfully tried to escape his clutches.

"Stop that!"

This time, he took advantage of her raised arms and attacked her under them, wallowing in the screams of laughter that pierced the heavy rock music that streamed in the background. Two types of music which rattled the cells in his muscles, squeezed them dry and made him thirst for more. Soon, she managed to wriggle free from his grasp and he ended up tackling her onto the sofa after chasing her to the living-room.

Eyes met, senses electrified. Every slight touch resulted in a spark alighting on the other's bare skin and singeing it to a heightened awareness of primal feelings. He was so close above her that she could taste the heat of his breath. And she was sure that he could hear, perhaps even _feel_, her heart pounding against her rib-cage, making her skin and bones vibrate like guitar strings beneath his hands. Seconds passed like hours and before they knew what hit them, the spell broke…

… leaving them to separate and wonder what could have been.

Nevertheless, he kept the music at a lower volume from then on and she'd never dared to question him further.

* * *

She cradled the frail paper crane in her hand and hoped that it would quell the worry that insisted on invading her calm even-tempered world.

Pristine white and frighteningly delicate, she examined the creation of her own hands at a moment of stress. One white crane, nine hundred and ninety-nine away from one precious wish. No stars in the sky tonight for her to watch and no music in the background for the noise to fade into. It was so small that she could crush it in the palm of her hand and not notice that it had been there in the first place. As was the case with so many things in this life.

His clean clothes lay in the same spot she'd dumped them. In the dark of the shadows, it almost seemed like he was back, a tired rumpled figure who lay on his sheets. She reached out, pressed her trembling hand against the clothed mass of her imagination and sighed as she felt it give way. Ashamed that she'd treated his belongings as such, she gathered them up and laid them neatly on his bed in case he changed his mind and decided to return after all. She'd be waiting here, calmer and no wiser for letting him back in again. Those carefree days seemed light years away, somewhere at a time where the world seemed so much bigger and friends didn't seem so imposing.

She looked down at the paper crane in her hand. Plain, whimsical and a symbol of a fragile promise.

"… _I'm sorry…"_

Smiling sadly, she placed it on the pillow where his head had once laid.

"It's okay… just come back home soon."


	5. Conflicts

**LoveloveloveloveLOVED writing this chapter!!**

* * *

Hordes of human flesh and bones stream against his path, some glancing curiously at the startling red of his hair, others not bothering to give him the time of day. He had his senses on high alert and a cold sliver of metal pressed against his thigh for reassurance. The trench knife in his jeans pocket helped him with the illusion that he was untouchable and keeping his anxiety in check let others know that too. J, frigid as an ice-cap, kept his back covered with one eye out for any nosy cops. Two foreign organisms which had infiltrated the main bloodstream. They were unwanted, despised even, but nobody would know that until the disease had spread.

"Quiet day." Hwoarang stated.

J nodded in agreement.

Despite being on opposite sides of the same law, cops and gang-members had one thing in common. A quiet day meant no trouble involving either of them, no blood spilling onto pavements, no bodies to drag into morgues and clothes which didn't reek of death.

But all it took was one spark to start a fire. He had to be sure to extinguish this before it could ignite.

Ears, eyes and nose fine-tuned to the point of paranoia, he could smell the lies people took such great care to hide. The summer heat had a knack for drawing out frustrations from those who had no talent for self-control. No matter how strong their deodorants and perfumes were, they couldn't mask what bound them together: the universal stench of sweat. He took note of the physical attributes of every pedestrian who crossed his path, from the boy wearing a white and navy school uniform carrying a backpack with a blond cartoon ninja on the front to the teenage girl in a Taekwondo gi. Her belt was green and her ponytail swished from side to side behind her as she rushed past him to a waiting bus. There were office workers in starched suits heading back in after their lunch break and housewives panting beneath the weight of their shopping bags. A white fluffy little dog scuttled through peoples' legs as its owner, a bald chubby middle-aged man in Bermudas and a Hawaiian shirt, struggled to keep up with it.

If he concentrated harder, he could even eavesdrop on snatches of conversations.

"Poochie! Poochie, get back here!"

"Mummy, can I have an ice-cream? A chocolate one with sprinkles, please?"

"… been thinking of quitting while I'm ahead, you know? Maybe let some new blood take the reins…"

"Fuckin' _five _F's?! Dude, you are _so _screwed when your old man sees…"

What he would secretly give to trade at least one of his worries for about ten of their petty issues. The tension had him wound so tight that he felt he would snap and put that knife to good use right here in a public space, regardless of the consequences. Hwoarang bit down a chuckle. Laughing in the face of potential death was no… laughing matter. Musing on an idea that had entered his mind a while earlier, he paused in his steps and was glad to feel J collide against him.

"Let's split up."

A raised dark eyebrow indicated a disagreement on J's part. Hwoarang feigned comedic scorn at this moment of weakness. Of course, he knew that this wasn't the case and J was only concerned for his safety but…

Now just wasn't the time for letting bonds of friendship get in the way of what had to be done.

"We'll cover more ground that way. It'll be faster."

"You'd be alone."

He rolled his eyes to disguise the anxiety that had stubbornly begun to swell in the pit of his stomach. "I'm pretty sure that I can cross the road by myself, J. I mean, yeah, twenty one, I'm such a _baby_ but you gotta give me some responsibility at least once in a while."

As far as sarcasm went, they both knew that he was laying it on a bit thick. Then again, the gang system operated on a chessboard complete with pawns, rooks, knights, bishops and kings. Some had to be sacrificed for the rest to move forward and capture the enemy stronghold. If he lost to an opponent, the fault would be placed on his own folly. The weak didn't deserve a second chance and Hollywood-style chivalry was a machination of the movies created for them to sell like pop-rocks in a candy-store. To affirm his conviction in this belief, he spun J around and shoved him in the opposite direction. The dark haired man glared back.

"C'mon, J. I'm the martial artist here and you have the bigger knife. The odds are even."

"It's your death wish."

Hwoarang smirked for posterity's sake and quipped, "Hey, if I'm going down, I'll be sure to take whoever did me in with me."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, he was tracing his path through familiar streets strewn with paper litter and other refuse. Plenty of places to hide here, perfect for an ambush or a couple of sneak shots. You could fire a bullet through an old lady's skull, take her purse and dump her lifeless body in a trash-can without anyone batting an eyelid. A kid like he used to be could roam aimlessly around this place for hours through the debris of human scum and still come out alive. Such were the strange and sad twists that came with the territory. Get used to it or die running.

On the ground, he counted three crack pipes, one discarded scrap metal shiv, piles of squashed cigarette butts, nine empty beer cans, a used condom, two rusted screw-drivers, an abandoned decapitated doll and several pieces of gum waiting to be stepped on. As soon as he felt his guard slip, he pulled himself together again, ready to defend his pride. So far, he had passed by a decrepit night-club and several seedy-looking stores with grimy windows. He didn't bother peering in at their wares. The incessant curiosity he'd possessed as a nine year old had faded to muted shades of indifference in adulthood.

For some reason, he started to think of the dead cat he'd come across at that age. It had probably been run over by a speeding bicycle to have ended up that mangled. Matted mud brown fur laced with dried puce red blood, its yellowing eyes devoid of all pain. What had struck him the most though was the rotten scent of decay… _that_, that was what death smelled like.

The rapid beat of footsteps against asphalt made him reach for the knife. He had expected this to come sooner or later. Any moment now, he would have face off against the most vicious pack of brutes he'd had the misfortune to cross. Intelligence levels didn't count for much in a street fight but a cool head and quick set of reflexes went a long way. Hwoarang gritted his teeth and braced himself for the violent impact.

He was prepared to take on an army…

… But ended up facing a kid.

The boy couldn't have been more than ten. His face was flushed from running and he skidded round the corner only to slam himself into the much taller man. He had fallen back on the ground and stared up at Hwoarang with widened eyes.

Before the redhead could ask him if he was okay, what his name was and most importantly, what the hell was he doing here, a smattering of more footfalls told him that there'd be more where this came from. Five boys, ranging from hulking to lanky, all probably in their early teens appeared in his way. The younger boy at his feet squeaked in terror and raised his arms over his face in a paltry show of defense.

It all came back to him. A cold night twelve years ago, a lost lonely boy standing his ground on a frozen lake as a mob surrounded him with leering stares. The boy struggling to hold his own against a bunch of bullies on the playground. The same boy trying to hold back his tears as his world came crumbling down for no fault of his…

"Yo!" One of the teens spoke up, beckoning to the boy with his index finger. "Thanks for stoppin' 'im. We'll take care of this from here."

Hwoarang stepped in front of the trembling kid and smirked in defiance. "Take care, huh? Doesn't look like you guys are _actually_ in charge of this turf for you to take care of anything."

The teen bristled. "Doesn't matter. He's ours, so let us have him."

"Woah there, no need to get territorial. Besides," He surveyed the boy's quivering form. "I don't see a name-tag on him staking your claim."

"He pissed us off so he's ours!"

"You're doing a great job of that with me yourself."

Red in the face, the other kid finally exploded. He doubled up his fists and motioned for his friends to follow suit.

"Okay, there's five of us and one of you. Come on then!" Hyped up on aggression, they bounced on the soles of their feet as they snarled and gnashed their cigarette-stained teeth much to Hwoarang's amusement.

"That's not fair. Only five? Get ten more and then we'll be equal."

"Argh!"

A bare-knuckled fist flew towards him. Barely a second passed until he'd caught the kid by the wrist and bent his arm back at an excruciating angle. The resulting screams of agony and surprised gasps brought a grimace to his lips. Given that he had their leader in a death grip, the remaining four were reduced to a gaggle of gaping idiots. The pluckiest amongst them, a gangly youth in frayed cut-offs, gulped before attempting a blindside sweep on Hwoarang. He didn't get too far as he soon came face-to-steel with a gleaming knife.

"Uh-uh." Hwoarang warned as he maintained his hold on the leader while still brandishing his weapon. "Make the wrong move once and you'll have some dead weight on your hands. Make the wrong move twice and I'll have five new trophies to display on my wall."

The youth paled and backpedalled to where the rest of his friends stood aghast.

"Anyone else want a lesson in Native American scalping?" He slid the knife across the small of his captive's back for emphasis and was pleased to note the visible tremor that coursed through the teen's stocky form. Deciding that he'd managed to get his point across successfully, he released him with a rough shove to the pavement.

"Get the fuck outta my sight before I skin you all like rabbits."

They were up and running before he could finish his sentence. Watching them scamper off into the distance, he shook his head grimly. The cowardly never changed their spots. A disease as deadly as leprosy if anything. He looked down to face the open-mouthed youngster still rooted to the ground. Extending a hand to him, the boy took it immediately and rose to his feet, cheeks slightly flushed from the excitement.

"Go home, kid. Stay outta more trouble."

The boy nodded and scooted off into the nearest side-alley.

Hwoarang couldn't keep the smile from appearing. If the circumstances had been different, he felt sure that Julia would have been proud of him today. Native American scalping aside, of course.

* * *

The bland A4-sized poster seemed innocent enough from a distance. It was only when he got closer that J was able to spot the fine print.

_**Looking For Some Excitement?**_

_**New Experences?**_

_**American, Venezuelan, Portuguese, Asian Girls Available!!**_

_**Hot! Hot! Hot!**_

The noticeable spelling wasn't the only thing that made J click his tongue in disgust. Seemed like there was a never a shortage of people looking for new 'experences'. Flicking his lighter open, he mused momentarily on the desperation which drove people to exchange money for one night of senseless pleasure. He did pity them, he thought as he lit one end of his cigarette. Unlike them, _he _didn't have to pay a pimp or anyone else for that matter if he wanted to get a woman into _his_ bed…

* * *

First had come three of them right ahead of him, blocking his path. The others had gathered around him like iron filings to a magnet and blocked his escape routes. Hwoarang didn't allow a shred of emotion to cross his face. He kept his mouth clamped and his eyes cleared as he let himself be surrounded by rogues mocking him with sneers and catcalls. Mentally, he scanned them for hidden weaknesses, weighing their strengths and drawing up strategies which may come in handy sooner or later…

"Hey, check it out! The runaway king's back to claim his throne!"

Hwoarang growled when the sickeningly familiar voice registered with him. He felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder and squeeze hard.

He didn't have to be reminded to recognize Choi's despicable presence.

"So," The man himself appeared by his side grinning slyly. "You finally grew your balls back after you disappeared all these years."

"I never 'disappeared'. I just kept my visits to a minimum."

"Suit yourself. And look what that cost ya." He made a show of counting on his fingers. "One, two, three, _four _men? Tch, I've heard of downsizing but there are limits – "

Hwoarang clenched his fists prompting Choi to pause. As if trying to make up for this lapse in confidence, the shorter man strode back to his denim-and-leather-clad coterie and wrapped his arm around an attractive woman in a white mini-dress. Keeping his stare fixated on his rival, Hwoarang noticed the way in which she eyed him. Heh, the cheap skank. Just the type that would cling to a prick like Choi for protection. At most, she didn't get much else from him apart from the cheap gifts, second-hand smoke and hard loveless fucks.

"Nice whore you got there, Choi. Where'd you get her from? The discount store or the open-house bazaar?"

The woman hissed and slid closer to her boyfriend. He smirked and watched a muscle tensed in Choi's jaw line as he struggled with a comeback.

"As if you do any better. What happened to the fifteen other sluts you used to bang?" He managed.

As all good actors know, the key to playing a part lies within the empathy one feels for the character. Hwoarang's problem was that he wasn't sure as to which of the roles was the one he identified most with. The charming rogue with a penchant for the fairer sex, the cool wacky friend who could only either be loved or hated by his friends, the rough sharp-tongued gang-leader who was more than capable of taking down multiple opponents in a span of seconds or the confused, emotionally drained guy hiding in the shadows of his fears?

Whatever. He'd make do with what he could scrape together.

"Fifteen?" He ran his hand through his hair in pretend puzzlement. "Dang, I thought it stopped at twenty-three. Just goes to show that the best girls know a good thing when they see it. Could explain why I see more dudes hanging with you than chicks…"

"You shut the fuck up!"

"That the best you can come up with?" Hwoarang raised his hands and invited the other to speak with a smooth gesture. "C'mon, don't give your fellow homos a bad name. Show me watcha got! Where's that street savoir faire?"

"Wha - ?" Choi chuckled, trying to hide his fury beneath a mocking tune. "What's with the wordplay? Don't tell me you actually went to _college_?! Whose test papers did ya cheat off from?"

His hulking comrades sniggered like he'd just cracked the funniest joke ever. Hwoarang paid them no heed. After all, he was sure that these idiots could be bested in an IQ test by a class of chimps if the situation arose.

"You don't need a diploma to be called 'smart', Choi. Depends on the people you associate with." He jerked his head towards the ogling group. "Kinda lacking in that department, aren't ya?"

"Oy!" The other gang-leader spat before seizing him by the collar. "Forgetting who's the stronger of us here?! Remember that it's your shitty lil' posse up against my men and you ain't gonna have it easy, trust me on that!"

"Your breath stinks, Choi."

"WHAT?!"

Hwoarang sighed in annoyance. "Your breath _stinks_, Choi. You should really get that checked out. Been smoking crack again?"

Choi released his wrath in a roar and tightened his hands around Hwoarang's throat. The redhead immediately snapped a knee upwards into the other's abdomen allowing him to break the hold easily. As Choi fell clutching his gut in agony, two of his goons rushed forward to pelt Hwoarang with their blows. Acting on pure instinct, he swung his left leg around in a perfect roundhouse which swept both of them to join their leader on the ground. The tension in the air erupted in a cataclysmic series of yells and calls to arms.

A thick muscled arm wrapped around his neck and proceeded to choke the life out of him. Enraged, Hwoarang flung his leg up to an almost vertical angle so that he smashed the tough edge of his boot against his captor's face. Hearing a rushed crunch and a howl of pain, he wrenched himself free to face off against four incoming attackers. They were all fools in the art of combat. He found it embarrassingly easy to parry their clumsy strikes and turn their loss of momentum against them. A couple of jabs were all it took to break down their flimsy defenses and thus bring them down to ground level. He dodged a swipe from a brute armed with a pipe and managed to kick it swiftly away from his grasp. A glint of silver caught his eye and he looked just in time to see Choi draw out a knife. Hwoarang quickly pulled out his own and prepared to spill blood if he had to…

The blaring police sirens shattered through the chaos, effectively rendering further confrontation dangerous.

Dispersal was instant and the two leaders had no choice but to make their getaways after each had raised his middle finger as a reminder of today. So long as they made managed to keep themselves alive, there would always be a next time…

* * *

"Some day you had." J commented.

"Tell me about it."

Hwoarang had barely managed to dodge the police surveillance as they'd patrolled the area after someone had snitched on the fight. That had been a stroke of luck. He'd been caught once before and Baek had had to bail him out. The aftermath had been even more unpleasant, if possible.

He and J were now sitting in an overcrowded Chinese restaurant, enduring suspicious glances from many of its patrons. Didn't they realize that gang-members needed a place to eat too, he wondered in frustration. It wasn't as if they'd had much of a choice. He'd known the place was a knock-off as soon as he'd read the name outside. 'Peking Paradise'… for fuck's sake, could they have come up with a more clichéd title? Still, he couldn't afford to complain given how empty his stomach felt. He hadn't had anything except for a coffee and a mint in the morning. Lunch had been forgotten in the events that had followed.

After another attempt to hail a waitress was rebuffed, Hwoarang had enough. "Fuck, J! Are the waitresses here always such bitches?"

"Depends on what you define as a 'bitch'."

Trust J to make his headache a worse ordeal than it already was. Questions of philosophy had an annoying effect of forcing him to brood over the very things he'd never before considered as important. Bitches came in all shapes and sizes but all that mattered was that they got on someone's nerves. There were the ones considered so because of their inner strength and refusal to succumb to anyone's whims. Girls like Asuka Kazama fit that profile well and Julia had her moments too. They didn't need a man behind them to help fight their battles; they could manage just as fine, or even better, on their own. Only cowards like Choi would despise them because of that strength. Then there were women like his mother. The type that wouldn't hesitate to draw blood just so they could have their own way. And when they couldn't get what they wanted, they'd always take their anger out on those weaker than them.

Just like she'd done to him as a child.

"A bitch is as a bitch does."

J contemplated this before nodding slowly in agreement. "I've known a few like that."

"Me too. Just my luck."

"Do tell."

"I would. If we could get someone to take our orders." Hwoarang lay his chin down on his folded arms and watched the bustling workers. "Which isn't likely to happen anytime soon."

J said nothing but raised his hand and snapped his fingers. A petite girl serving a table close to theirs looked up through her long dark fringe.

"Seran."

"Yes?"

"Two bowls of rice, stir-fry and chicken."

"Okay."

She was off with the order in an instant. Hwoarang watched her curiously.

"You know her?"

"She owes me a favor."

Ignoring the 'No Smoking' sign plastered on the wall behind them, J stuck a cigarette in his mouth and had his lighter out sooner than Hwoarang could blink.

"So… you were supposed to tell me a story."

"About a bitch? Which one?"

"They're all pretty much the same so any will do."

Hwoarang shrugged.

"You asked for it."

* * *

**4 years ago**

The trouble had started with that stupid history project where everyone was supposed to be divided into two's. He had been paired up with his good friend, Steve Fox, while Julia had ended up with the class loner, Jin Kazama. Come to think of it, it had been Kazama's fault that the story had begun. He was the one with the stupid fan-club filled to the brim with his stupid fan-girls headed by that stupid pig-tailed ditz, Ling Xiaoyu, who'd do stupider things to get his attention at all costs. The stupid rumor-mongers hadn't helped either. Two people of the opposite sex on one team must obviously hint at the sparking of a secret love affair, they had assumed. Much to Hwoarang's irritation considering that he hated the Japanese, from the tips of that ridiculous gel-infused spiked hair-don't to the toes of his big ugly feet.

So when the gossip sprouted through the grapevine, he had a whale of time trying to control his outbursts. Julia, on the other hand, presented a calm façade and even laughed off the more ridiculous tidbits. Kazama had shrugged and let the whole thing roll off his broad shoulders as usual. Their joint nonchalance soon put him at ease. For the most part… just as long as it wasn't true…

That day had begun as normal. Julia had met him at his locker and they'd both walked off to their homeroom class, laughing about yesterday's Biology class on the finer points of human reproduction. Today would be mundane at best unless someone managed to set the lab on fire _again_…

The hushed whispers were the first thing he noticed when they entered.

And then there was the message scrawled on the board.

_JULIA CHANG IS A SLUT._

In broad chalk-white letters at that. Flying into a rage, he attacked it vigorously with a duster until he'd erased it completely out of sight. He turned to face the tittering groups hunched around desks and was just about to deal them the most scorching tongue-lashing of their miserable lives.

Then he'd seen her face.

Her cheeks had paled from the false accusation but had begun to flush scarlet in humiliation as well. The closer he moved to her, the more visible her trembling became. Unsure of what else to do, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

"You okay?"

"I'll be fine. J-just let me get through this."

Poor Julia. Thin skin was both an asset and a weakness in the harsh world of high-school. She was already trying to pull herself together before she could crumble properly. Maybe he ought to tell her that it was alright to hit the ground first. Except for the fact that this was a fault he shared too and hadn't come any closer to improving on.

A giggle made him prick his ears.

Snapping his eyes to the door, he caught sight of them. They quickly bobbed away before he could call out leaving him to glare at their retreating backs as they escaped down the hallway. Fortunately, he had also seen the pair of pig-tails bouncing at the sides of their owner's head as she scurried into a nearby room. They reminded him of antennae. A bug's antennae. An annoying, pesky, stupid little bug which deserved to be squashed…

The flame of vengeance had been ignited within him and he would to do anything to ensure that it would be quenched.

Absolutely anything.

A drowsy Physics class later on in the day provided him the perfect opportunity to put his plan into motion. Excusing himself to use the washroom, he set off to enemy territory: the girl's locker room. He'd heard that Xiaoyu's class was in the middle of their gym period, thus leaving the room deserted and available for anyone to enter. Having located it, he set out to find the Chinese girl's locker. Not surprisingly, this proved to be an easy task when he noticed the glittery pink hearts painted on the metal along with hers and Kazama's initials entwined in cursive handwriting. She'd even scribbled some sappy love songs beneath them. Hwoarang tried hard not to gag.

The security these lockers provided was something of an inside joke amongst students. For that, he was thankful as he smashed it open with one deft kick. Collecting whatever contents he could rummage from the pile, he managed to lug a decent-sized heap out into the school grounds. That old oak tree seemed like a great spot…

He dumped the pile of clothes beneath it and picked up the first thing he closed his fingers around.

A fuchsia pink ruffled skirt. How very Xiaoyu. He flung it up into the branches as high as it could go.

Next went the white tank top with 'Angel' inscribed on it in a sparkly curly font. Yuck…

He raised an eyebrow at the padded Hello Kitty bra he held in his hand. There was still some tissue paper crammed inside it to compensate for the owner's lack of a normal-sized chest. Oh well, all the more reason for him to put it on display. Surely Kazama preferred a woman with a larger cup-size anyway.

One by one, the rest of her trinkets followed until he was finally satisfied with his handiwork. When he returned to class, no one noticed the broad grin lining his face over their troublesome worksheets…

"Hey!" Steve poked him in the side. "What are you up to?"

Except one, that is.

"Nothin'."

"Liar. What do you get up to while you were out?"

"I don't think what one does in the privacy of a washroom cubicle is anyone's business. Now did you finish solving 2A or am I gonna have to sneak a peek at Lars' paper?"

When the bell finally announced the end of another dull monotonous day, Hwoarang raced outside at top speed. He could have died from laughter at the scene which greeted him. Xiaoyu and her redhead accomplice, What's-her-name, stood beneath the tree gaping in horror while the growing crowd screeched with mirth and pointed at the spectacle he had created. He stood with his hands on his hips, tall and proud of his accomplishment. The entrance door swung open behind him and Julia, lost in thought, joined him outside. She must have immediately sensed the excitement in the air judging from how fast she followed his gaze to the tree.

What he would have given to reply the way she turned to look at him again. Anything to preserve those eyes meeting his in awestruck wonder. Anything for the way those eyes of hers made him feel at that very moment.

_Annyong Arumdaun._

So this was what being invincible felt like.

Spirit on fire, Hwoarang dug his hands into his pockets and strode to where the two girls stood gaping. He appeared directly in front of them and made sure they could see justice burning in his eyes. He said it so that it'd skewer them to useless shreds of insignificance.

"Bitch."

* * *

J blinked twice.

"Damn."

* * *

_**Annyong Arumdaun (Korean) **_– Hello Beautiful


	6. Secondary

Asuka had never believed in the concept of love at first sight. Equally puzzling was the theory of opposites attracting. Then again, Physics wasn't her strongest subject. But there would always be that someone who was determined to prove you wrong no matter what.

It could be a complete stranger or the person you've spent the best years of your life with. Little by little, through the smallest things, they'd show you how the impossible could be achieved. As the days go by, you begin to feel your way through the unknown, groping about for the answer that would bring the truth to light. You refuse to ask for help because this is supposed to be _your _task. This was supposed your quest to find yourself and yours alone to understand. The path lay bare and empty before you; all you had to do was lead the way. Easier said than done but if they could do it then so could you.

She had believed in herself.

She had believed in fate and destiny.

She had believed that no matter what choices they would have made, there could only be one true outcome.

But that had been a long time ago.

* * *

The bell jingled above her head as she entered the restaurant. Rows of empty chairs at empty table greeted her with stark muteness. They were closed until six on Saturdays but Matt had called her in early to help with some 'deco modifications'. At times like these, she did wonder what the supposedly blind man hid behind those dark aviator shades. However, it was Saturday and she was single. Hence, the need for a distraction.

Her footfalls barely roused an echo thanks to the thick rubber soles of her Converse trainers. Outside, the sunlight provided an excuse to keep the lights switched off indoors. One particular ray caught her attention as it ricocheted from a polished wood panel onto a patch of blond hair…

"Who are you and what type of being are you to possess a man like Steve Fox?"

The Brit popped up from behind a stack of boxes, grinning at the sound of her voice. "New twist on an old adage, I like that. And might I ask what possessed _you_ to drag yourself out of the comfort of your warm bed to this barren…"

He let his eyes wander over the deserted foyer while he searched for the right word. "I suppose wasteland wouldn't quite fit the context, wouldn't it?"

"Nope. It's just an ordinary plain ol' room."

"Bah, that doesn't fit well in my book."

"Well, fix it up then! Scatter some fairy dust and summon some spirits!"

"I would. But I left my book of spells at home with my wand and invisibility cloak."

"Dork." She smiled, rolled her eyes and plopped down next to him. "Just how many people did Matt ensnare in his scheme today?"

"Seems like you and me are the only ones who bothered to show. Or…" He deftly plunged his hand into a pile of violet petals and scooped out a handful. "We both just need some new hobbies."

"Like flower-arranging? Leave that to the traditional Japanese housewife, Steve."

"And you are… what?" Blue eyes danced in a mix of glee and slyness. Before the images of sun-dappled walls and warm rugs impressed upon her mind, she flung out a (hopefully) witty retort to cover the rising heat in her cheeks.

"A future one, if I let my mother have her way."

"I take it you're still not on great terms. Never mind." The last two words were intended as a balm, nothing more. He rarely spoke much of his mother, a comment or two about how she liked irises but nothing deeper. "Here, grab a bunch and tie 'em up in ribbons. Mini-bouquets."

The skill at which his hands and fingers worked their way through string and stems was remarkable. She would have expected them to be as clumsy as hers were, the supposedly nimble agile ones that mended, repaired and healed. Far from it in reality. She could break, damage, wound and tear apart with her hands. Her hands were made for destruction, not for amending what they wrought. Anything but worthy of the blooming flowers she clenched in her fist.

"Where's the ribbon?"

"Here," He tossed her a spool of white tread. "Sure you know how to tie them together? I could show – "

"I _know_."

"Just asking."

"I'm not as stupid as you think I am."

"I _never_ -" A hand clamped over her wrist, stopping her from fumbling further. " - said that you were stupid. What gave you that idea?"

"It's nothing."

He let go without another word. Her mood swings weren't new to anyone who knew her well. A quick temper wasn't a trait which the Kazama genetic tree could boast of. This left only her mother's side of the family to blame. How ironic, considering that both of them had been on increasingly volatile terms over the last couple of years. It had all started when she was thirteen, sick of feminine excesses and had point-blank refused to step out in the ruffled pink outfit that her mother had picked for her to wear to junior high prom. To cut a long story short, an argument of deafening proportions had ensued and Asuka spent prom night alone in her room, sulking over how wretched her life had turned out.

Next had come the choices in hair, extra-curriculars and friends. Defiant as ever, she'd stubbornly kept her hair short, chose to hit the playing-field instead of the cooking classes she was _supposed _to have attended and kept her nose out of the petty affairs of her mostly air-headed peers. Tomboy, rebel, vigilante, cocky and couldn't-care-less were the labels they'd slapped on her. She grit her teeth and bore it anyway. It wasn't that she liked being stamped and put in a box. This was the path she had chosen, this was what fate had chosen. Of this, she was sure.

To think all this had begun because of a stupid frilly pink dress…

"I'm sorry, Steve. I really didn't mean to snap at you that way."

He didn't even look up from his work when he spoke. "Two minutes and fifty-two seconds. New record. Normally takes you around half an hour to apologize."

"I'm turning over a new leaf. At least… I'm trying to."

"What was wrong with the old leaf?" This time, she was relieved to see that he _was _looking at her. "Aside from the occasional temper tantrum or four?"

"You're incorrigible."

That grin again. That infuriatingly delightful grin that ignited a flame in her chest she couldn't extinguish as easily as it had started. "There, got you again."

"Damn you."

"Tsk, tsk, mind it there. Wrath didn't earn its place as one of the deadly sins because it only caused a few dishes to shatter. Next time you feel like throwing something at me, keep that in mind."

"Yes, _Dad_."

"Nice shoes, by the way."

"Don't change the subject."

"It's also called expressing an opinion. Ah, there we are, " He held out his completed bouquet with the flourish of a magician. "How're you doing?"

The bunch of irises slipped through her grasp onto her lap. She still adamantly muttered "Fine."

"You're not tying them right."

"Yes, I am! It's just because… this thread… doesn't let me…"

"Bullocks." Before she could protest further, he'd scooped them up and begun encircling them with a piece of string. "You didn't knot it correctly. Here, this is how it goes…"

What with the rush of blood to her head from when the skin of his hands had brushed her denim-clothed knees, she could barely hear a word he was saying much less comprehend that she was supposed to slide this part over here after she had made the loop. By the time the heat had died down and the whirring in her ears had ceased, her bouquet was back on her lap. Perfectly put together unlike her. For a few seconds, she envied the contact they'd made with his bare hands…

"Got it? I could do it again if you want – "

"No!"

From the quizzical glance he shot at her, she knew that _that_ hadn't come out the way it was supposed to. She repeated herself more calmly. "No. No thank you."

Blue eyes scrutinized her quietly as she buried her face in more petals. "You're a funny girl, Asuka."

"I don't care."

"Why are you so defensive?"

"You said that like it's a bad thing."

"It isn't, I didn't mean it like that." Steve set down his work and met her averted gaze. "I'm just saying that you have your odd little quirks, that's all."

"So?"

"They're quite endearing."

"Really?"

He nodded, she noted. _He nodded._

"Yeah. Even your temper does have some hilarious consequences like when you dumped the leftover water from the vase onto Hwoarang's head when he called your cat a fleabag. Or when you decked that guy over the pool table when he groped you and can't really forget the time when you 'accidentally' tripped that drunk bloke who gave you a bad tip on your first day at work here – "

"That _was _an accident! I was wearing my new heels and I slipped. I guess my foot got in the way…"

"Oh don't play dumb – "

"You're one to talk!"

"Of course I play dumb. People with brains have to _act _like they haven't got any or else endure the humiliation of stooping down to a plebeian level – "

A bunch of flowers shoved into his face ceased the chuckling. Try as she might, she could never fathom an explanation for the sudden surge of warm current that rushed through her, from the tips of her toes to the apples of her cheeks, whenever he would just be… him. Hormones could be said to be triggered by beauty, the beautiful people always provoked a reaction. Newton's third law states that every action results in an equal and opposite reaction. The more he laughed her off, the less she tried to submit to his every whim. She wouldn't be his princess or damsel-in-distress… not if she could help it…

_I don't need a Prince Charming, thank you very much._

It sounded good in her head…

"I don't need your help, Fox."

… so why did it hurt when she forced herself to say it from her heart?

"I don't think you asked for any, Kazama." A tinge of curiosity entered his tone. "Unless… you do need it?"

"No… I was just convincing myself of that."

"You know, it's alright to be weak once in a while. Everyone has their moments."

"I don't want my moment to come now."

A jolt of electricity burst through her chest as a familiar hand found its place on her shoulder.

"It's okay."

Asuka willed her heart to slow down to its normal rhythm. At this rate, he'd feel it drumming her bones through her skin. She hummed his words mentally inside her head, repeating it like a mantra to soothe her nerves.

"Does your mother know about this?" he asked, concerned.

"She doesn't have to."

_Funny… coming from you of all people. Why don't you ever tell me about _your _mother?_

"Trust me on this, Steve. I'll be fine. I prefer solving my problems on my own."

His hand froze, still pressed on the fabric of her shirt. Compared to its previous erratic beat, her heart quieted itself to an uneasy silence with the hairs on the back of her neck prickling in anticipation.

"What? What's wrong?"

A cloud seemed to shift in the blue of his eyes. "For a moment, when you said that… you almost reminded me of – "

"Hey."

Neither of them had noticed the bell jingling, announcing her entrance.

"Jules?"

"Came to return the umbrella." Sure enough, the folded green umbrella swung limply from her crooked elbow. "Sorry, was I interrupting?"

"No! No, of course not!"

Gone was the smooth suave ease with which he spoke so fluently with her. The almost-comical bluster of a schoolboy-like crush had returned along with Julia from her self-imposed exile. Asuka could practically feel herself fading into the background.

"Everything alright, Jules?"

She exhaled, obviously exasperated with the inquiry. "I'm fine, Steve. Just like I said I would be, remember?"

Julia. She had reminded him of Julia.

How foolish could she get?

"Hi, Asuka!" The older woman was now beside her on the floor. "I'm surprised you actually decided to take up one of your mother's hobbies for a change."

She forced a grin back onto her face.

"Tough luck, it's not for me. It's for Ma – "

"ME!!"

The trio winced at Matt's arrival, eyes twinkling behind dark glasses and cane dragging along the floorboards. A voice that loud should come with a licensed permit. Especially if you were the blind sort.

"So, what've you guys got for me?"

"Five down, sir!" Asuka threw in a military salute to maintain the _joie de vivre_. Cheesy smile et al.

"That's it? Sheesh, talk about unreliable labor."

"Talk about _slave _labor."

"Was that Julia I heard?" Matt rambled on, completely ignoring her. "Thought the princess wanted to stay locked up in her tower?"

Julia shook her head indignantly. "Not this one. I got bored and picked the lock."

"Good to know, Rapunzel."

"I'm letting down my hair? Please…"

Despite her eye-rolling and protesting, Asuka wasn't too surprised at the comparison. Whether she liked it or not, Julia was a princess in a fairy-tale. Trapped in an isolated tower, she would have to wait for her prince to come… or have another rescue her. Glancing over at her friend, she realized that the Native girl even looked the part. Long brown hair in a braid coiled around her neck, peaches and cream complexion and those dark mysterious eyes which bespoke a shy melancholy gaze… might as well paint roses in her hair, fit her in a bodice dress and surround her with fairy lights at night.

As for her, Asuka didn't need saving.

Come to think of it, she wasn't sure that anyone else thought of it any differently.

"Tuesday night's special. Maybe you could get dressed up and come along for the ride?"

"Special?" Julia raised an eyebrow. "What's the occasion?"

Matt grinned. "Don't need an occasion for something special. A good crowd, good music, some damn good drinks and ta-dah! Ready to get the party started."

"Sounds… interesting."

"I'll be there." Steve interjected from the sidelines. There he stood, leaning against the wall, eyes bright with hope.

_That's right, why don't you just throw yourself at her?_

"I don't think I can, guys. I mean, Asuka's got that Chemistry exam coming up and I promised I'd help – "

"Aw, come on, Jules." Refusing to be the wet blanket, she stood up. "I told you over the phone that I got that one covered now, didn't I?"

"I suppose but – "

"Uh-uh, no problem. I'm fine."

"But – "

"You can go to the party."

That settled it. She'd never stoop to being the one in need. Who was she to stop Cinderella from going to the ball? Definitely not the evil step-sister. This wasn't a fairy-tale, she wasn't a princess and Prince Charming was a product of a bored housewife's imagination.

Clichés and more clichés. Asuka Kazama never conformed to them. Rather, she shred them to pieces.

Julia seemed torn. The martyr who only wanted the best for her friends. Asuka knew she would probably blame herself if she were to flunk this test. Just like she'd blamed herself for Hwoarang's sudden departure and many other things that were long gone. The girl was too sensitive for her own sanity. She silently pleaded for Julia to just say yes and get it over with. It was alright to be selfish, once in a while.

"Okay. I'll think about it."

Asuka nodded in agreement and settled down to finish the rest of the bouquets.

"Can I help?"

Startled, she gazed up at Julia.

"With the flowers."

"Oh… yeah, of course, help yourself."

With swift and nimble fingers, Julia immediately outshone her flimsy attempts at the task. Thirty seconds later, she had completed one bouquet and was beginning the next one. She heard Steve's low whistle of admiration.

"It's nothing." Julia assured her. "You'll get the hang of it. With some practice."

"It's okay, I'll be fine."

Some girls just weren't that good at playing princesses.

* * *

**It's official: despite my track record, I suck at writing Asuka. The result? A terrible update. Sorry about that, guys.**


	7. Inked

Hey Diary,

It's been a while, hasn't it? But damn, did I miss you. That's what I get for being too creative with my hiding places. I'd completely forgotten where you were. Judging by the date of my last entry, I think I've done pretty fine without you too. Except now, pathetic as it sounds, I need the silent attentive patience of an inanimate object that no living person of flesh and blood could ever give me.

Strange. The human body is nothing without a soul. It's the soul that enables the mind to think and the heart to feel. After all, a heart is a muscle. Scientifically speaking, it's not supposed to 'feel' anything more than physical. A book possesses no soul until the writer breathes life into it. It's how we get to play God, in a way. We create characters, people who live in worlds we've created. From the time they walk into our heads, we start mapping out their futures and creating a past for them to have come from. Whether it's the beginning, middle or end of their story, there exists clarity. I think we create clarity in our mindset because reality is often a mess of blurred boundaries. There are no beginnings or endings in real life; there is only the present which we have for now.

I've thought about this before. Who I am cannot be who I've been because I was born a blank canvas. From the second I was born, I have been painted upon by family, friends, casual acquaintances and complete strangers in almost every color possible. Red for love, blue for bliss, yellow for joy. Green for envy, grey for sadness, black for fear. Then, there came an age where I was supposed to pick up my brush and finish what they'd started. I stood there… and my mind was as empty as it was the day I was born. I stood there, paintbrush in hand and a palette of colors from which I had to choose, looking around for guidance.

All around me, I saw the ones whom I thought _I _knew best. I saw them standing with brushes poised above their canvases. But like me, that's all they did. Just standing there, eyes straying to each other, waiting for some sort of signal to begin. Beautifully flawed creatures, as lonely as I thought I was. It should have felt nice to know that I wasn't the only one. You know, _schadenfreude_, when one derives joy from the suffering of others. But if anything, it felt worse. Now that I knew that they were just like me, who was I supposed to turn to for guidance?

Knowing me, I couldn't leave them behind.

So… I picked up my brush and drew a line to separate the beauty from the human in me. I painted over my flaws so that they'd have the better half of me. This way, I could help them help themselves.

It seems that I'm still learning that I have my limits. I'm not a goddess and neither should I pretend to be. I guess it's better if I lead by example and not by speech. My voice was never strong enough anyway. It's only in ink that the iron in my will gleams. I might as well be mute and express myself solely in writing. Colors limit me, but words never. My voice may fail me but my heart won't let me down. You alone have had a glimpse of the tainted side of me. Looking back, I'm disgusted. So many flaws which I've let loose, which I should'vepurged by some healthier means. I have corrupted pages of pure clean paper with lines of venom. Oh thank the Spirits that no one shall ever see them.

I have decided that when I have completed this book of illness, I shall get rid of it. I shall burn it so that no one shall ever come to know of me. These insidious thoughts shall be released into smoke which will fade without a trace. And then… I can pick up my brush and start painting a new picture. I was never an artist but always a narrator. I shall speak and nobody will want to listen. Thus, the cycle repeats and I will still bother trying to console myself through… redemption. 'Redemption' is sadly overrated.

Speaking of 'talk', I spoke with my mother today. Someone must have blabbed or else she would have never come to know that I was sick (pun possibly intended). Usual mother-behavior ensued, 'Is your forehead warm?', 'Have you taken your vitamins?', 'Has he called?'. No, yes and no. If I'd known she'd be this inquiring, I would have taken better care before falling ill. Once I got that outta the way, we did have a nice conversation. I used to think of her as my guiding light. My perfect unmatched light when I was a kid. I know now that she may be older and wiser but definitely still human. Surprisingly, that's fine with me. I've long since abandoned my dreams of perfection.

So far, 'perfection' doesn't appear to exist. It's a myth as are all things ethereal. 'Perfection' belongs in a world filled with sunshine, rainbows and angels. A child's vision of Heaven. It's not that I don't believe in goodness anymore. It's just that I have stopped believing in happy endings. Nothing ever ends because there were never any beginnings to start from. What am I but the next link in a long line of relationships? My biological mother cast me off when I was a newborn so that she'd end that chapter in her story once and for all. She was proven wrong. I lived, I grew and I'm here now, a legacy of a mistake. The child that shall someday spring from my womb will carry a part of my past within them as I carry a bit of hers in me. Whether they like it or not, it never ends.

At times like these, the words hurt too much. Sometimes, I wish I could be like Hwoarang and let my fists do the talking. When he refuses to speak to me, I wish I was his guitar which he hums his songs to. It's just like me to be jealous of an inanimate object, especially one that gets to feel his hands pull at its strings. He does that to me too, without even the slightest touch. He makes me sing his song without even knowing that he does it. And how! I admit, he's amazingly talented…

I'm not in love. I'm anything but naïve. I'm sure he feels that way too.

'Love' is a lot like 'perfection'. They're both unattainable. You have the lucky ones like Christie and Eddy who find what they're looking for in each other. Then you find the rest of us, like Steve and I, wanting what they can't have. I've wondered, is it the attraction of knowing you'll never have something that makes it so appealing? It's a horrible disease to be afflicted with. I sure seem to have a knack for catching unwanted illnesses.

It's almost like being a heroine in a cheap romance novel. Helpless vulnerable women who literally fall at the feet of the first handsome Lothario that sweeps in through the door to her boudoir. Yuck, but I still read them anyway. If Asuka or Hwoarang knew, I'd probably be called a hypocrite, what with my reputation as 'The Practical One'. Christie wouldn't mind. She'd probably congratulate me for finally loosening up before going and borrowing a copy from the pile under my bed. Mum calls them 'sickening'. I agree but they're actually quite funny. Like this one:

'_He gazed into her limpid blue eyes, captivated by their untainted virginal innocence. Her lips parted, Cupid's bow released its arrow and he was immensely, inexorably, immediately hooked to the cherry-sweet taste of her deep red lips.'_

Bah, humbug. I'm laughing already. Limpid blue eyes? Virginal innocence? Filling each paragraph with random words from a thesaurus does not make a good romance novel or any kind of story for that matter. Maybe it's the clichés? I want to believe in a happily-ever-after for _someone_, fictional or not, so must I turn to these for security?

Yes, clichés most definitely serve their purpose in that respect. I'm nothing but a plain old cynic and my canvas is bare, devoid of color. Remember what that was like? Red for love, blue for bliss, yellow for joy… once upon a time, I was a child, not a princess. The world used to be so vast and my curiosity seemed endless. I didn't need a prince because I never had to be rescued. I was my own friend and I loved that little girl very much.

But like all little girls, she had to grow up eventually.

And when she did, the world became too small for her. She had to stunt her big imagination just so that she could find a place to fit in. She let her hair grow long so that she'd have a curtain to hide behind when the words grew too harsh. She locked herself up in a tower so that no one could ever hurt her. She still doesn't need a prince because she knows that she can't depend on anyone to rescue her.

I stand here in my tower, looking down at the world instead of my canvas. Here, on my perch, I can see everyone. I can see them wonder and I do too. I wonder if they think of me as much as I think of them. If it weren't for these high impenetrable walls between us, I wouldn't have minded if they'd dropped by once in a way to visit. I often press my ear against that wall and listen in on their thoughts. Even if I can't see what they hide, I can at least empathize. I'm more like them than they realize. At the same time, I don't know enough about myself to show them who I really am.

Very often, I think… that the greatest tragedy… is to go through life without knowing what you alone can achieve on your own.

So, one wish at a time, I am creating a beginning. I am going back to my childhood to bring out the little girl I lost. I missed everything about her; her innocence, her quiet brave optimism, her ability to dream, all those things and many more. I made another paper crane today. That brings the grand total to… five. Mere scraps of paper aren't enough to bring anyone back but I could hope, can I? Even if it hurts, hope is what keeps us going towards the end of our stories whether it's a happy ending or not. It keeps us going because… there exists the chance that a new chapter could begin. With each end comes a beginning. Nothing is ever supposed to remain completed.

When I am done writing, I shall get up and walk to the window. Then, I shall look out for the first star in the sky and make a wish. Okay, maybe more than 'a' wish. I wish for Christie's baby to be alright, for Asuka's cat to come home (although that would be the seventh time he's run away this month), for Steve to find the happiness he truly deserves, for Jin to start smiling and of course… for someone else to find his way home. Wherever that is.

Hopefully, everything will be alright. Nothing has to be perfect as long we all learn a little from our choices. Love doesn't have to hurt, love doesn't have to be proven to know it exists somewhere. If not here, then perhaps in the next link of the chain.

A never-ending story.

Clichéd. But I can live with that.

Gotta get through the days now. One at a time this time, without letting them slip under my feet again. I'm not that fond of surprises

* * *

Before she could complete the sentence, the phone had begun to ring. Frowning, Julia stifled her annoyance with a sigh. Just when she'd been on a roll too. The thing about people is that they never knew when they were needed. She left her long lost diary open on the bed with the uncapped pen placed in the middle of the page. There was no one around to pry into her head anymore.

"Hello?" She spoke crisply.

"Hey…"

Julia had never been fond of surprises. The fact that the phone almost fell to the floor because of her suddenly trembling hands attested to that. Groping around mentally, she regained a hold of her voice.

"Hwoarang?"


	8. Us

"Hwoarang?"

Just when he'd forced himself to accept the filth he was forced to inhale, the breath in which she said his name ruined it by making his lungs ache from the pure oxygen.

Damn her.

"The one and only."

She remained silent for an instance, probably still recovering from the aftershock. "… Good to hear from you. Finally."

"Is that so?"

"Would it surprise you to know that?"

There was a hint of incompleteness about that sentence. Must be too stubborn – not to mention pissed-off – to admit the "… I missed you" part at the end.

"I kinda got the feeling that you wouldn't want to talk so soon."

"No, I'm glad you called. Calling, that is."

"C'mon, it's not like I wandered off to Alaska or something. Besides, I'm sure you're not _that _starved for company."

"Not really."

"Ah, see? You're doing great already."

"Don't tell me now that that's more than what you can say for yourself."

"… Um…"

"It is. Right?"

Shoot, she'd got him again. Here he was, helping her to fortify her defenses against wasting her time worrying over issues she held no blame in and she _just had _to go and screw up things for both of them _again_. At times like these, Hwoarang wished he'd never trusted her with his wholeness. She would have been better off with a harmless rounded, less jagged piece of him and he would have gone on none the wiser.

"It's not that bad. About as bad as grazed knees but not _that _bad."

"Grazed knees…" He felt her smile wryly over the phone. "What is it with you and your wound analogies?"

"Dunno. Anyway, it's not like you're the direct one here either."

"Smartass."

"Stuck-up bitch."

"Wuss."

"Prude."

"Jerk."

"Nerd."

All in good humor, of course. Sarcasm does wonders for the bruised heart.

"So what are you up to down there? Broken anything so far?"

He grimaced. "Yeah. Came this close to being sliced to ribbons. Like that scene in that movie _Into The Sun_? That ridiculous one where Steven Seagal beats up those Yakuza guys? Almost like that, except that I'm not a middle-aged Japanophile who can't act for crap."

"Hwoarang, you _can't _act for crap."

"Says who?"

"I can read you like a book."

"And what do _you _know about – " He stopped himself before he could make a potentially dangerous mistake. "Heh, never mind. The point is you don't get me as well as you think."

"You think so?" she asked, amused.

"I _know _so."

"So not only do you do a shabby job at acting, you also are equally mediocre at interpreting."

"Screw you _and _your psychic psychobabble."

Julia sighed in frustration. "It's called an intuition, Hwoarang. Besides, we're digressing now. If I recall correctly, you told me you were almost 'cut to ribbons'."

Oh no, here it was. The Grand Inquisition.

"Wasn't anything serious. Not even a scratch."

"Knives now… instead of bare fists. Imagine, I used to think things like these happened to other people. Not…"

There was a catch in her breath this time. She'd managed to stumble across that dreaded word again. The taboo one, the one that would be too sacrilegious to contain the bare remnants of their relationship. Or what was left of it.

_Us._

He decided to put them both out of their misery and back in their places. "Well, shit happens. There's nothing you can do about it."

_Replace 'it' with 'us' and what do you get?_

"That doesn't have to apply to everything. There's usually _something _that could be – "

"No, that's called 'disrupting fate'. AKA not gonna happen."

"Since when did you start believing in fate?"

The receiver creaked in his grip as he tightened his hold. "Shit happened. I didn't have a choice."

"Did somebody get hurt?"

"Worse. They're just a bunch of bodies now, excuse the pun. I was too late."

"Sorry."

"That gonna fix it?"

"I wish." She responded bitterly. "They were too young to go, right?"

"They always are."

"So why do you do it? For all we know, fate could have you next in line."

"Then that's my problem, not yours."

"… Hwoarang…"

"Don't." He began sharply. This couldn't go any further than it already had. "Don't say it, Jules."

Silence ensued. A hollow ballooning silence that threatened to pop with each passing second. Hwoarang watched the street-lights flicker to life, one after the other, and listened to the static over the line, searching for signs of life. Phone conversations were the worst. If he could talk to her face-to-face with no barriers between them, it'd be a lot easier for them to let go of it.

_It. Us._

"Can you see the stars over there?"

"Huh? Why d'you want to know?"

"Because I wanted to say something cheesy about how we could be watching the same stars under the same sky so that you could go ahead and mock me for it." Pausing for air first, she then continued sheepishly. "Yeah, I was just that desperate to talk to you. You can laugh now."

Lame. So lame that it almost made him choke on the pity that sprung within his chest.

"Hwoarang? You there?"

"Yeah, yeah, I am. And yeah, that was pretty damn cheesy."

"Oh, I thought so too."

"But there aren't any stars here anyway. The air's too polluted in this city. Maybe if I drove to the outskirts, I'd see some but no guarantee there. What's so special about stars though? They're just balls of hot gas unless I got my facts wrong."

"Bright lights in the sky… are there a lot of lights there?"

"Depends on where you go. Mostly it's billboards, shop signs and traffic lights."

"If you look at this way, those are just bits and pieces of chemicals and fiberglass."

He allowed himself the luxury of a genuine smile on his lips. "Okay, you got me there. But they're beautiful in their own way."

"The city lights here are beautiful too."

"If that's supposed to make me come back, then you're _really _naïve."

"Why do you have to do this?"

"Please, enough with this discussion, Jules. I've already told you a hun – "

"You tell. But you don't say."

His heart hammered for a moment as he struggled to come up with a wittier retort. Mission eventually aborted. He might as well dole out the truth. Or at least, part of it.

"I don't _say _because… it might be misunderstood."

"Try me."

"Uh-uh."

"Aw, come on, why not? Are you scared?"

"Yes."

That caught her off-guard. Even he had to sit back for a moment and curse his honesty. "Yes, I'm scared. But I'm not running away from anything. You got that?"

"I know. You're not running. Only in the physical sense though. You're distancing yourself from… your friends. From everyone that cares about you because you're obviously scared of something. Of ending up with more than just grazed knees, is it?"

"You wouldn't be wrong but that's not the whole truth. It's a matter of duty as well."

"You sound like Jin."

"As if Kazama knows anything or gives a damn about my business." Hwoarang replied tersely, his irritation at being compared to his rival sparked. "Besides, I bet his idea of honor would have been to commit _seppuku _after getting dumped by Christie. Too bad he wasn't samurai enough for _that_."

"Hwoarang! That's cruel!" Julia laughed anyway.

"What? Look what he lost out on, poor bastard."

"She's happier with Eddy, that much is evident. Haven't you noticed that glow in her eyes when she smiles now?" Yep, he was grinning despite her earlier comment when he could hear the sunshine in her voice as she spoke. "And I'm so happy that she's happy."

"Disgustingly cute. You're giving me cavities now."

"Wash your mouth, boy. It'll keep Captain Plaque at bay."

"… Why can't I ever get your jokes?"

"…"

"That _was _a joke, right? Or am I missing the subtext again?"

That sigh again. The one which _always _succeeded in pinning him right where it hurt. A hard injection of truth usually followed it.

"You don't really get me at all, don't you, Hwoarang?"

"How am I _supposed _to? Tell me how and then maybe, _just maybe_, we'd head in a direction apart from nowhere."

"… I don't know…"

"That settles it then."

No. No, it didn't. They were both like knotted piles of strings which either was attempting to unravel and so far, they had each achieved the same result. Another set of knots and tangles which refused to yield even to the most dexterous of fingers. Too little pressure worked no wonders. Too much would break these fragile threads. There was a fine line between trust, betrayal and… and… and…

"Jules, why can't we call it a truce?"

"Truces are supposed to be called when there's no other possible solution in sight. Not as a last resort."

"Do you see any endings around? I know I sure don't."

"There's no such thing as an ending, good or bad. Life's a circle, it never stops."

"You live, you die, end of the road. Fin, owari, goodbye cruel world."

"Not really. You'll always leave a part of your life behind. A legacy, you could say."

"I'm not quite feeling that."

"It's… kinda hard to explain. I just thought about it today, in fact."

"Someone has way too much free time on their hands."

"Hmph, you're one to talk. Here I am, struggling under mounds of assignments and housework while you're out there running around with your gang pals and getting into all sorts of scrapes. Somehow, I fail to see the fairness of it all."

"You'd rather be here, surrounded by danger and dead bodies? You'd rather be out here looking over your shoulder with every step you take outside, scanning every street corner for an ambush and plotting escape routes in your sleep? Is that what you want?!"

"You don't have to yell – "

"I'm not!" He stopped immediately, realizing the contradiction. "Sorry… but that's how I feel. It's _anything _but fun."

On the other end of the line, Julia slunk down against the wall's cold support until she couldn't descend any further. Her tongue still stung from where she'd bitten it earlier. She could barely even summon the strength to hang up, much less retaliate.

"If you don't like it so much, then why don't you lay the matter to rest as soon as you can and come back home?"

Those words felt gravely wrong but they'd slipped out before she could stem them. It was a stupid question, one which she already knew the answer to. It despaired her; it was starting to eat away at her conscience because she hadn't tried hard enough to keep things as they should have been. _This_, this teetering mass of secrets, lies, confessions and broken promises was swaying dangerously as the wind lifted.

"I can't. Not now."

"Perhaps someday?"

"That's a tricky promise to keep."

"Just try, okay?"

He couldn't guarantee his safe return or if he ever returned at all. The choice was to feed her the pretty lie or the ugly truth. Either way, the chances of her getting hurt were far too high for him to compromise integrity. Whether there could ever be a happy ending for them both in the future was questionable.

"I can't promise you that. It's too risky."

"Then… could you at least keep yourself alive so that we could get to talk next time too? I'd like that."

"Yeah, me too." He feigned neutrality. "What do you mean by 'keeping myself alive'? I'd be an idiot to let them get me that quick."

"Hmm, you never know."

"Then blame fate or whatever it is that you believe in if that happens."

"I believe in many things but I don't depend on any of them."

Good call, he had to admit. Perhaps he'd try that out for himself… one day…

"Don't get your hopes too high. It'll hurt more when they come crashing down." He concluded, hoping the tone of finality would throw her off. "Say, it's getting late here, Jules. I'll talk to you later, 'kay?"

"I won't hold you to that."

"You can quit the cynicism act now. That's more my style. Besides, this is one promise that I can keep."

"Alright then. Take care."

"You too."

As he hung up, Hwoarang remembered that he'd forgotten to wish her goodnight. A small trivial matter which shouldn't have bothered him this much but it did. Much as he tried to fill the void left in him after he'd departed, he was still starved for honest companionship. J was his friend but friendship could only go so far. Julia was his friend too so her presence… or lack of it shouldn't make him want for something more. It _shouldn't _have but here he was, wishing he could rewind time to the last time he'd seen her.

"It or us?" He wondered aloud to himself.

Outside, the streets were aglow with neon lights and bar signs. He leaned out the window to watch the world stream past him, one car at a time, one dashing mob of youngsters at a glance. Outside his world, no one would ever bat an eyelid at his presence.

In the midst of a tide of artificial lights and under a starless sky, Hwoarang understood what it meant to be well and truly alone.


	9. Circles

**Four years ago**

Jin hated Sports Day. Nothing more than a paltry excuse to get all students and teachers whipped up into a fake frenzy of school spirit and cheer. He hated that the date always fell on a day on which the sun would blast her true colors of soda-pop yellow and orange into every cool shadow of every nook and cranny he inhabited and he especially hated that it gave certain people a chance to release every ounce of pent-up aggression into the soles of their feet.

"… see ya at the finish line, Kazama!"

Through a salty film of sweat-soaked bangs, Jin could barely grimace at the retreating back of the Korean as the latter seemed to streak past their peers in sports gear on his way to the starting point. As per school tradition, there was to be marathon, a long winding one, which snaked through the downtown zone of boulevards and avenues. It wasn't that he had even _wanted _to take part in the first place, it had only been through sheer damned luck that his little freshman cousin couldn't keep her enthusiasm to herself and thus, signed up everyone she knew up for the grueling finale. For all Jin cared, the time being wasted here could have at least been wasted in cooler temperatures.

Maybe he should have faked an illness. Or picked a fight with Hwoarang and gotten a limb fractured or a shoulder dislocated. Or he could have just had the foresight to sign up for volunteering at the drinks' stand like Julia…

"JIN!!"

The dread rose up his throat like nausea. He could recognize that voice from a mile away, sugar-coated and oddly melodic in a way that reminded him of a wind-up talking doll in a toyshop window. A blink later and he was surrounded by a mob of starry-eyed honey-voiced clones with barely an inch of breathing space left.

"Why _hello _there…" Xiaoyu beamed.

Jin felt like a cornered rat and Xiaoyu was the satisfied kitty licking her lips at the prize. The rest of her pack mirrored her sentiments, grinning viciously at the sight of their target right within reach. Nearby, he could make out the envious stares of a gang of sophs who would've sacrificed any random leg to get half the attention he was receiving.

"Great day, isn't it, for running?"

He nodded. That it was, he couldn't agree more on.

"So we were, like, just walking around and talking about stuff, you know, and we saw you all lonely and sad in the corner…"

"You didn't have to… I mean, I'm not – "

Ironically, they even seemed to find his spluttering adorable. "Aw, isn't he cute? _So _in _denial_."

"I'm not…"

"Oh! I know what would make you feel better!" Xiaoyu clapped her hands and jumped in a show of childish delight, pigtails bobbing at the side of her head like insect antennae. "You could hang with us during the race!"

"I'm not…" Jin's voice gave way beneath the pressure of living up to his starched, polite-as-primrose reputation. Funny, he didn't usually worry about this so much when he was with… "I'm sorry, I can't…"

"Why not?"

Her voice, inflected with a slight tinge of mournful reproach, could have succeeded in making him reconsider were it not for the glimpse of the cunning he caught in her eye.

"I can't…"

Maybe if he could stall them for long enough, he would be able to inch his way to behind Steve and have the blond talk his way out of this mess. The Brit always had a certain flair for words, especially in the tightest of corners. Jin envied him for that. Words were tricky creatures to catch on one's tongue.

"I can't because…"

"He's with me."

A tanned brown arm slid around his broad shoulders, surrounding them comfortably in a loose embrace.

"He's with me." Christie repeated, ignoring the jaw-dropping stares directed at her unwelcome presence. "Didn't you guys forget that everyone was supposed to pair up before setting out? There was a memo on the notice-board next to the Chem lab. Safety measures, I think. Remember, Jin?"

The dread was now overwhelmed by something less sickening.

"Remember?" She nudged him for good measure. "We're partners, right?"

"Yeah," He felt his dry lips mouth the words. "… because she's my partner…"

His feet began to move on their own accord. Then he realized that he was being led by the elbow away from the gossiping groups and to a patch of shade under a gnarled old tree. She released him before he could catch his breath, so it was a while before he could stand straight and return her gaze. He opened his eyes, brushed his bothersome dark bangs aside and took in the sight of her caramel-hued auburn hair hanging in a loose ponytail coiled around her neck and the hard sharp rise of her collar-bone and the way her eyes glowed whenever a glint of sunlight flashed past the leaves above them…

"Are you okay, Jin? Your cheeks are flushed."

"…Fine." He mumbled, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth.

"That's some fan-club you have there." She misplaced his stare to be on the crowds behind them and followed it. "I bet a lot of guys would kill to be in your place. The strong silent type that all the girls fantasize about."

"Hmph."

"Okay, I take it that you disagree."

The words piled up and accumulated in the pit of his stomach so he only shrugged. The hand placed on his shoulder, the same one which had locked him in an almost-embrace, made him yearn to clear his throat.

"It's not easy being green, eh Kermit?" she quipped, plucking at his shirt for emphasis.

"I don't see what I have in common with a puppet frog."

"Oh, so it _does _speak." Christie feigned astonishment with a palm over her laughing mouth. "You almost had me ready to resort to teaching you sign language."

"Thanks for… _that_. Back there."

"No problem, Kazama."

The switch from 'Jin' to his impersonal surname disturbed him beneath the calm he wore over him like a mantle. But then she smiled, a warm infectious swathe of rippling energy, and he felt alright again.

"So are you running?" she asked.

"Not anymore."

"Good call, but I'm talking about the marathon."

"It's not like I have a choice."

"It wouldn't hurt you."

"Not if Hwoarang doesn't see to that yet. I don't want to be here."

Jin hadn't meant for those last words to carry an air of distress but they did. "But I'll run."

_I'll run if you run with me._

"You'll do fine, Jin. You're a tough nut to break, that's why you always pull through in the end. Pure determination, that is." She paused as the announcement over the PA system rang out. "Wow, time already. We should get going."

He followed her in silence, committing every note in her voice to memory as she chattered away to him and anyone else she knew. There was a certain rhythm with which she moved, swaying and rocking to the music in her internal system, completely unaware of the jarring echoes of the outside world. Jin had theorized once that everyone had their own unique inner music. Asuka had the easy riffs of pop-punk guitars while Julia embodied the mysterious, slightly melancholy hum of a flute. Hwoarang was a heavy-metal anthem, jammed with the heavy wails of basses and cymbals crashing and Steve was an acoustic tune, natural and light on the ears.

Christie was the sound of percussion, steady and riveting whenever she pleased, like drums made of wood and steel. She would lead the audience on, enticing them to her dance and allowing them to move as freely as they wished. But they could never stray far without the memory of her song itching beneath their skins, tempting them to come back for more.

Jin was empty.

His world was silent save for the muffled sounds emanating from behind the closed doors of others. Jin himself was a closed book, a locked box with nothing more to offer than these very echoes of vibrancy and joy.

The whistle blew and he watched her run further away from him. It wasn't any wonder that they could never be a duet. She was the sun and he would forever be in her orbit for all he cared but he'd never be cruel enough to bring himself to bring silence to her symphony. Even as he followed her stead, he kept his distance, not daring to speed up enough to be ensnared in her wake and not slow enough to lose her trail. He kept his pace, even when Hwoarang overtook him with a rude hand signal or when Asuka stumbled over a pot-hole and went down with a shriek.

He followed dutifully but couldn't bring himself to cross the invisible line between them.

All of a sudden, Jin felt a pang of sadness.

* * *

His high-school days were done for but that didn't stop him from looking back. It was a dangerous habit for a scion of a wealthy family name to possess, one which he'd always sworn to end at the beginning of every New Year. And yet again, he'd find himself returning back to every beginning he could have created. Round and round, snaking through birthdays, anniversaries and tragedies, only to end up asking the same questions of what could have been a chance to grasp.

He lay flat on his back, watching the sun stream through the gaps between the leaves.

For all his years, he'd never really understood what it was to lose control. Breaking down wasn't something the Mishimas looked highly upon. They were supposed to maintain an unruffled dignity throughout whatever disaster that befell them. Jin had never lost his mind in public, never shed a tear for anyone to witness, had never understood what it was like to be on the inside of the circle. He learnt poise, stature and how to repress whenever ache in his chest that threatened to tear deeper into him. It was a lesson that had served him well for the twenty one years that now lay behind him.

Repression had lead to his survival for twenty one years.

But out of all these years, how many of them had he truly _lived_?

Time hadn't changed him much. He was a rock in the midst of a moving stream, steady and unmoving, shaped only just by the forces around him. It wasn't as easy as it seemed, to watch time cast its magic over everyone else except him. It wasn't in great ways, mostly the little things like the thickening coil of Julia's braid, the gold band around Eddy's finger and the swell of Christie's belly…

A mewling sound made him sit up and stare straight ahead.

"Tama-kun."

Asuka's lost cat didn't appear too glad to realize that someone had happened upon him this soon. Jin knew that look. He'd seen it many a time in a nearby reflection whenever he was caught unawares. But being a house-cat did have its natural perks. Free meals and bedding, free to come and go as you pleased without having anyone question your motives. If reincarnation was more than mere speculation, Jin definitely wouldn't mind being reborn as a cat.

Still, Tama-kun (Tama-chan, actually, until a trip to the vet proved otherwise) belonged to someone who cared enough to keep searching for him after his unannounced departure. Jin belonged to no one, didn't belong to anyone, had _never _belonged to anyone.

The buildings loomed large and foreboding in the background, thick concrete slabs containing microscopic chasms of ideas and lifestyles. Existing proof that no matter how close people co-habited, they often rarely stepped out of their own shells. Like clams, really. Cold, clammy creatures that burrowed further and deeper into the sand at the slightest touch. Then again, it could just be him being bitter again. Another habit that was hard to shake off.

Jin clicked his tongue and motioned with his fingers. The grey tabby followed him reluctantly.

* * *

Christie wasn't, by any means, prone to nostalgia. She was usually ahead of the back, rushing forward at a breakneck pace, never caring to look back. Eddy was the opposite, slow and steady, relishing life in his own time. They were different enough to conjure what the other lacked.

Christie would never stop moving ahead. But she was beginning to cease running.

Not enough to turn around, though. Not enough to catch more than a glimpse of pained brown eyes hidden behind layers of jet black hair, even if she felt them bore right through her sweat-slick skin at times.

Perhaps if she didn't look as often, they didn't have to exist so clearly.

Sometimes, Christie would look out the window of the apartment they shared. Sometimes, she would even catch herself wandering about in a half-dream. Dreams speckled with sunshine, the squeaks of running shoes against asphalt and baritone murmurs…

Then as soon as the first kick within her womb transpired, she stopped dreaming and resumed her running.


	10. The Signs

**If you remember this chapter from the original, you'll probably notice a **_**lot **_**of changes as you read through this. The last one seemed kinda immature and whiny so I hope this is a lot better. **_**I hope.**_ **Yeah, I took out the kid coz' he was dull and unnecessary :P**.

* * *

It took longer to fall asleep nowadays. Julia would lie awake for hours on end and brood over unfinished endings. Curled into herself, knees pulled up to her chin and eyes squeezed tight. As soon as she relaxed, the frayed strands of thoughts unfinished would claim her dreams. Smiling blue eyes and serious brown ones weren't sights she was accustomed to seeing – or imagining, in one case – on a daily basis. Things always seemed to go round in circles, even when they were triangles.

Five thirty-one.

Five thirty-two.

Five thirty-three.

Her eyelids felt so heavy. All she had to do was drop her guard and just drift. One moment she was stifled beneath her comforter and throwing it off, the next minute she was running her palms over the goose-bumps on her arms. In the end, her restlessness won and she was examining the red rims around her eyes in the bathroom mirror. She braced herself for the cold water about to splash her face. Three… two… one…

Awake and shivering, nuzzling a towel for warmth.

* * *

The newspaper on her lap was still warm off the press. Beneath the main headline about a plane spontaneously combusting in the middle of the Indian Ocean was a smaller picture of a young woman holding a sign above her head. A frizzy-haired blonde, cheeks flushed pink as her jacket, grinning against the Nordic cold as she stood tall and proud for the camera aimed at the pedestal she had climbed. The ink was a graying shade of black and the paper almost bent from the wind.

_I LOVE YOU, TOMASZ_

Julia tried to smile with the woman, forced the corners of her mouth upwards as if she could squeeze a few drops of cheer from her cheek muscles and have them flow down to the rest of herself like happy tears. If anything, she hoped that Tomasz would see his articulate young admirer in the news and send her a sweet little note back saying that yes, he loved her too and couldn't they meet up later for coffee? It must be freezing in Poland so things like coffee and cuddles definitely wouldn't go unappreciated. Flowers too. When there was snow, there weren't any flowers…

Her eyes fell on the miniature vase of violets in the center of the table. They were deep purple, some of them almost black, and blended well into the background.

A mechanical 'click!' told her that the water was boiling and ready to mix with the instant coffee. It was one of those instant cappuccinos that came in paper cylinders for the busy and downright lazy. Imperfect and a far cry from the real flavor of freshly ground beans but it was easier than the other option.

She flicked through the rest of the papers. Nothing but the mandatory disasters these days, images of wailing widows in countries she'd never heard of and blazing metal carcasses from the spoils of pointless wars. Fire, hot sweltering heat, Hwoarang was a fire sign. Aries, she remembered. The Ram, God of War, prone to irrationality and extremes if she remembered her horoscopes correctly (or 'horror-scopes' as her mother had dubbed them). She was an Aquarius, a Water Bearer, a sign of contradictions. Never the twain shall meet. From the looks of today's predictions, the future didn't bode well for either of them.

_Aquarius – Your commitment to do right may prove to be fraught with distractions._

_Aries – Even the best laid-out plans can go awry._

Mug cradled in her hands, she sipped too soon and burnt her tongue. The fatigue had melted away for the most part, leaving her with fluttering fingertips desperate for release. She needed to write, draw, hit a punching-bag, throw a ball around, _something _to quench her thirst for activity. The sun hadn't even risen yet but the clouds in the sky were already thin and spent from the anticipation.

She recalled climbing up to the roof of the bungalow she used to live in with her mother. Five years old and so very eager to touch the sky. The clouds had looked like white puffs of cotton candy that spring. How disappointed she had been after all that time wasted on creeping up the walls via cracks and crevices only to found that she still couldn't reach up enough to grab a hold of them. At five, the smallest things left you disillusioned. At twenty, perhaps she had seen it all. It was quite a thought to behold in expanse and it made her shudder a bit. It was too early for her to be this wary.

Twenty years and how many months since her last birthday… January… almost four months and counting. That reminded her, she needed a job. Something full-time and preferably nothing to do with having Matt Guarini as a boss…

'CRASH!' and then she felt the absence of warm ceramic between her fingers.

At her feet, rivers of steaming black coffee made islands of the pieces of mug she'd been holding a second ago. Julia swore, adding in something tart and British which Steve had taught her, and attempted to scoop up the mess single-handedly. Bad move…

With a shriek that would have done any little girl proud, she retracted her finger just in time to see the bead of blood dripping down the side.

Memories had a nasty way of creeping up on people. Especially the ones which were meant to be forgotten. As she mopped up the scarlet trail on her skin with a napkin, she couldn't help but succumb to the plot her mind had begun to replay.

In a flash, she experienced it again and again, blinking twice to make sure she hadn't twisted anything out of proportion. It had been a night. There had been laughter that night and there had certainly been dancing.

Strobe lights.

Sore feet.

Cheap liquor.

Something other than glass falling to pieces.

* * *

**Two years ago**

In a few hours, Christie would be welcoming her eighteenth birthday. To make the minutes drop faster, there was a party. Unlike her, Christie enjoyed surprises and when things went off-schedule. Cancer, a jovial sign, formless and uncontainable. The bash was at the new place. Julia had forgotten the name some time ago. She was too busy trying not to be crashed by the continuous waves of dancers swarming over each other in screaming torrents of tipsy movements.

_Air_, where was that goddamned _air_…

She heard something, a break in the breathing patterns entangled around her personal space.

"Oi!"

Relief flooding her, she slipped her hand into his and allowed herself to be pulled through the wall of flailing limbs. He guided her through the mess, his hair lighting up with each flash of the lights. Blonde, not red. Blue eyes, not brown. But it was okay. He was familiar, a friend and he could be counted on. Christie was lost somewhere in the crowds but no doubt still enjoying herself at the very least.

"All right?" Steve asked her, his fingers still encircling her wrist.

"No worries." She wrenched it free.

Minutes passed. She tried to relax and not tuck the strands of hair falling from her chignon back into their place. With each flash of light, she'd look up and across the dance-floor, eyes peeled and hoping to catch a glimpse of fiery red locks.

"Is he coming?"

"I don't know… I hope so."

He looked at her with some concern. Blue eyes, not brown. "I'm sure he's fine. Maybe he's caught up in traffic."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Don't worry." He smiled. Blue eyes, not brown. "Just try to have fun, right?"

And she did. Try, that is.

Half an hour to midnight, she excused herself and snuck out through the backdoor. Leaning against the hard brick wall, she exhaled in contentment. Finally, she could catch a breather. Hopefully, Christie wouldn't have seen her. The Brazilian had been too busy giggling at something a tall dark-skinned man with dreadlocks was telling her.

"Hey…"

She heard his footsteps before she saw him. Brown eyes, red hair, a purple bruise forming on his temple, the language of his gaze undecipherable. She rubbed her eyes to make sure that it wasn't really her imagination that he appeared to be _swaying_.

"Ya lookin' real nice t'night." He stumbled over his own two feet; she saw the bottle in his hand. "Bu' the yellow one looked better on ya. No' that I dun like the blue."

"You're drunk."

"Naw, no' drunk. Jus' that things never work the way they're supposed ta." A cough ensued and he took another swig. "Watcha lookin' at, Jules? S'only me, ya know?"

She shook her head slowly. Grimacing, and then chuckling slowly, he moved in closer.

"Hwoarang, stop…"

"Wish all girls were like you, sometimes. Like you always know where the remote is an' the answers to all those tests. Sometimes I wish I had some'un who'd go ou' wi' me to concerts an' movies an' shit like that. Some'un who likes stuff that I do an'…

Losing track, he fell back, landing on the pavement. Throughout his long-winded monologue, she had been interjecting in a soft voice, mostly repeating his name over and over, trying to ring a bell somewhere in his conscience that the man fumbling over his words before her was not him.

"Hwoarang…" she began once more.

" 'Course I know, Jules! You was supposed ta be inside wit' e'ryone else and have fun."

"Please – "

"Ya remember Mia, righ'? Yeah, she was talkin' about you, said that _I _spen' way too much time wit' _you_. Tha's why she dumped me an' then her ex comes over and kicks my face inta the dirt. Laughin' like a maniac so I ge' up an' slam the bastard inta the wall and then 'is buddies join in an' – "

"You moron."

"So wha'?! I won anyways and I knock out 'is two fron' teeth. 'E didn't have ta piss me off an' insult ya coz 'e was pissed an' ya know I love ya too much an' so – "

"What?"

"Yeah…" He propped himself up his elbows, swinging the bottle by the neck like it was a cat whose neck he wanted to wring. "I said I lo – "

He choked, rolled onto his side and promptly threw up. The beer bottle smashed as it hit the wall.

Inside, the clock struck twelve.

Later, they both walked home. He was propped up on Steve's shoulder and muttering to himself while she kept her head bowed low. Steve didn't bother asking any more questions.

Come morning and she wished that she'd been dreaming. Hwoarang was sitting on the sofa when she awoke, his head buried in his hands. Feeling worse than ever, she returned to the comfort of her room and hugged her pillow. Afterwards, she heard and felt.

A door closed. Another opened. The hinges creaked.

Something whispered. Something thought of.

A hand on her shoulder, then her back. Fingers running through her hair. She realized she'd forgotten to take off her earrings last night. They weighed heavily on her ears.

The door closed.

The tear she'd been holding in all this time trickled out.

* * *

Julia looked out the window. The clouds had scuttled off to make way for the sunny blue sky. She wrapped up her finger and discarded the remaining shards. Her footsteps echoed harshly for want of a muffler. This place was really too big for one person…

_Now, now then…_

She thought of better things. Waffles smothered in honey, hot coffee on a gloomy day, Tomasz and the blonde woman walking through snow-covered streets, hand-in-hand, and eyes sparkling like stars.

It had to work out for some people. It just _had _to.


	11. Tides and Times

**This story now comes with a soundtrack. As does 'Right Here Waiting' ;). I hope you enjoy them and PM me if you have anything to say. Reviews are welcome for this chapter too XD.**

* * *

The dream wasn't new. He'd spent countless nights adrift in this very same nightmare trying to breathe through the foam that crashed over his head. It was the same ocean, the same memories flashing before his eyes, the same darkness that loomed on all fronts, and the same light that always remained out of his reach. His limbs would stiffen despite the fight he put up to resist the incoming force and his lungs… that was the worst. His lungs would swell full of black water until the point where he could feel each cell split apart from the pressure.

At this point, Hwoarang would have woken up screaming for air…

Back when he was nine and sleeping with a knife in his pocket.

At nineteen, it had been Julia rousing him from this turbulent slumber with a firm shake and strings of gentle words. It used to be her thumb which traced warm comforting circles on the worn flat palm of his hand as he lay awake after the storm, the tremors in his shoulders soothed in the circle of her arms. A few months later, he tried to recreate the same warmth for her as she lay still on her own bed with her back towards him. Perhaps she was asleep, he'd thought, desperate in his attempts to bring her to life after having almost tainted it with a drunken confession the night before. Maybe she couldn't feel it… maybe she didn't want to anyway…

He'd left her room, his eyes stinging and mouth bitter.

Barely over a year later, he woke up to the same dreams resounding loud in his head, high definition and achingly clear. This time, his pockets and hands were empty, just like a certain nexus within him. Rolling onto his back, he watched the shadows on the ceiling creep back into their corners and cracks. The day had arrived and fears would have to be put on hold. Monsters were midnight exclusives.

Curling tighter into himself, something he hadn't done since the day his father had finally walked out of his life, he began to trace his own constellations on the skin of his knees and shins. The tips of his fingers were cold and numb from the artificial air being pumped into the room but they would have to do for the moment. From where he was, he couldn't see much of the sky. Clouds of smoke had stained what had once been a perfectly promising vista.

* * *

'_Held up wit bizness. C u l8er.'_

Alright, then. A few hours without J wouldn't be _that _bad. All the guy ever did was smoke like a furnace and reek of dry humor.

Hwoarang was seated outdoors on the porch of the abominably-named _Peking Paradise _with his chin on his palm and eyes on anything that caught the mid-afternoon light. Alone, bored and hunger gnawing at his stomach, sienna irises eventually settled on the white-hot gloss of a slight young waitress' dark hair. He remembered J referring to her as 'Seran'. If he recalled correctly, 'Seiran' meant 'storm from a clear sky' in Japanese. It was a name of a fighter jet in World War II. Pearl Harbor, explosions lighting up the sky, bodies hitting the deck, mornings he'd spent snoozing through History class to the lullaby of a teacher's drone…

A mouse scuttled across the floor at top speed, startling the girl on its way. Nope, she was definitely no fighter pilot.

"Hi." He raised a hand politely. She nodded in return before going back to wiping down the surface of the table across from him. Now that she was out and unconcealed from the dim abyss within the restaurant, he could get a good look at her.

Seran, quite possibly, was the tiniest thing he'd ever seen, hardly taller than he'd once been at twelve years old although J had mentioned her to be around nineteen. Much of her face still remained hidden beneath thick bangs but he could make out the visage of a pixie-like chin and full pink lips. Except for a smattering of burnished acne at the apples of her cheeks, her complexion retained a childlike suppleness.

"Is it always like this on weekdays?"

She nodded again, the long strands of hair sliding across her cheekbones in rhythm.

It was the unsettling quality of the silence that filled the area which bothered him. An absence of noise created a vacuum inside his periphery and nature refused a vacuum. His father had left a gaping hole at the table they'd used to sit when they were a real family, bang in the center. His absence had created a black hole of sorts, into which every semblance of order and safety was sucked into until Hwoarang had been reduced to hanging on for dear life in the midst of a cyclone. Today, he was in the eye of the storm where things lay calm and motionless. Time would only hint at how long sleeping wolves would lie.

"Seran?"

Her hand tightened around the cloth in it, her stance betraying the confusion at being addressed so. "Yes?"

"How's life?"

Her reply? Blink, blink.

"O…kay, that was kinda broad. So, how was your day?"

"… Fine."

"Customers treating you… fine?"

Yet again, he'd had to settle for a mute reply. Yes, she nodded, ponytail swinging slightly reminding him ever so much of…

"Any boyfriends that I know of?"

A smirk tightened his cheeks as a blush crept into hers whilst she wrung her hands in an impression of guilt. "N-no."

"Don't worry about it," he leaned back in the iron-wrought chair with his feet on the table, deciding to give the poor girl a rest. "There's always somebody. And someday."

It would appear, Hwoarang mused, that solitude did wonders for one's personal philosophy. Somebody, someday, sometime, someplace, somewhere, an endless list of imaginary possibilities conjured by one man's (or woman's) fancy. He missed his guitar around the hour when the clock struck noon earlier. The aridity had ignited a fire in his blood with a spark of restlessness. Fingers bending around thin air, he plied invisible strings for a ghost audience, whispering words beneath his breath. On the sidewalk, two pairs of gleaming eyes in sun-kissed faces stared him down. He paused, stared right back, added a wink and watched satisfied as the schoolgirls were reduced to heaps of giggles on their way home.

The sharp blast of a gunshot made him fall off his chair.

Scrambling to his feet, adrenalin and explosives pounding through his heart, Hwoarang's head spun from the images of cold dead flesh on wet concrete. He rushed out onto the street, only to be met by the comical sight of a rotund grey pensioner fuming over scraps of charred black rubber next to a stalled van.

"What was that?" he heard Seran call out timidly.

"Nothing. A tire exploded."

He was grateful for the fact that she wasn't the curious type. Ask no questions and you could keep your head above the water. Wander in too deep and you'd drown.

Seran awaited him in the shade of the porch, dark brown eyes cast down as soon as they met his.

"Were you scared? Sorry."

This time, she _shook _her head, the first hint of defiance he'd seen in her so far. A long time back, he would have taken shyness as weakness, interchangeable as they seemed before his eyes. He'd changed his mind when Julia Chang, the girl who'd run off in shock from her own surprise birthday party in eighth grade, spent the whole of one miserable night with him after Baek's body had been placed in a wooden casket and lowered six feet into the earth in eternal rest.

"I guess you must be used to this by now," He ran a hand through his hair to disguise the guilt bubbling within him. "Shit like this happens a lot these days…"

She only had to tilt her head down slightly to show she agreed wholeheartedly. "I have a brother."

"What?"

"I have a brother. He's ten." She repeated, enunciating each and every syllable louder and clearer than what he'd expected of her customary mumble. "I don't want him to become like you."

He would have preferred a straightforward slap to the face instead of _this_.

"I'm sorry, Seran but…"

Without as much as a glance at him, not that he didn't need to see just exactly what she thought of him, she turned on her heel and picked up the cloth she'd left on his table. The sound of the door closing destroyed any semblance of silence that was present earlier, leaving him out alone. Little by little, the noise started to seep in. Police and ambulance sirens, profanity-filled rap lyrics barked out from a stereo in a passing car, a woman sobbing into her mobile-phone, the sound of glass smashing on bricks…

The music of the mess he'd created.

It was always the quiet ones that caught him off-guard. He hated it.

Shoving his quivering hands into his pockets, Hwoarang slunk back into the shadows.

* * *

In time, he found himself wandering through the better part of the district. Over here, they called the streets 'avenues' and gave flowers to each other with shiny happy faces, twisted mouths heaping curses on their neighbors as they did so. The place had looked like Wonderland back then, when he was younger and blinder. Pastel-colored sweetshops and toy stores now reminded him of artists and their many illusions, sweet and delusion-inducing. Peppermints were what his father had used to bribe him with in return for not snitching on his sordid late night affairs. None the wiser, he'd accepted them and learnt to swallow the lies whole with the candy.

Stupid kid, he scolded his past self. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

He kicked a pebble off the asphalt and followed its path as it bounced twice, then ricocheted off a nearby wall. This wall was a disgustingly pristine shade of white and part of a swanky-looking restaurant. The inquisitive part of his mind kicked in, allowing him to peer through the glass from behind the thick maroon curtain inside. A couple with a teenage son sat nearest the window, absorbed in their late afternoon meal. The woman kept on picking at her silverware with the tips of her manicured nails while her son, pasty-skinned and shaggy-haired, stole glances at an expensive game console hidden on his lap underneath the table-cloth. But it wasn't either of them that had caught Hwoarang's attention.

The man at the table was tall and broad-shouldered, exactly as he remembered him. There was a touch more grey in his hair, more lines in the skin of his forehead and hands but there was no mistaking the resemblance.

The man looked up and Hwoarang found himself staring straight into his father's eyes.

For the second time that month, the young gang leader fled the scene.

* * *

Hours had passed.

The sun had set.

J had called twice.

The night smog hid the stars from view.

He had run, kept on running, twisting his path through every side-street and alley that came his way until his aching feet made him realize he'd been running in circles all along. Slowing down, a strangled laugh escaped his throat. Oh, the irony, the cruelty…

It had been exactly _thirteen fucking years _since he'd laid eyes on the man, ever since the day he'd cracked under his wife's verbal abuse and stormed out of the kitchen for good. Lucky number thirteen, how absolutely bloody hilarious.

He closed his eyes, trying to erase away the last few hours and go back to the times when he didn't have to worry about such coincidences.

As his luck went, he could barely recall any.

Gritting his teeth, picking up the pieces of the mask and armor that had slipped to expose his weakened state, he trudged 'home' to the cold ill-lit apartment in the midst of the chaos he'd plunged into.

Still, the joins in the façade he wore were now all too visible.

No better than his old man.


	12. Repress & Release

Happy Birthday, **Razer Athane**! I remember you loved the original chapter and now I've gone and changed it... a lot...

D:

I don't know how this is going to go down. Regardless, thanks for reviewing all the way and hope you enjoy your day, if not the story :)

* * *

"Are you sure it _was_ your father you saw?"

She had been listening carefully to every word he'd let escape through the distance between them, metaphysical and otherwise, holding on tight just in case they were swallowed by the static. There may have been an ocean and a million or two buildings in between them steadily driving them apart but she would hang on for the moment, even if he would be the one regretting this confessional tomorrow morning.

"… Are you alright about it?"

It was a stupid, pointless, harmless question which masked the thousands of others that were begging to be released. One which she already knew the answer, buying her time to keep this moment protected as her fingers curled into the black lace on her dress. After all, Tuesday night was supposed to be special.

"Just a headache." He lied.

"Take a pill."

"Yeah, whatever…"

There was still more to his story than the mere tale itself. Those were just lines, made impromptu within the seconds he'd spent dialing her number and waiting for her to pick up. The real story, the truth of the matter…

"Is there anything else?"

"Nope."

"Really?"

"Sleep, I just need sleep, Jules. You should get some too."

She let go from there, afraid of rubbing his sores too hard in case they hurt and wholly ashamed at feeling so. Perhaps truth was best viewed through a darkened screen. Opaque and indecipherable.

"Goodnight, anyway." He sighed, thinking that she wouldn't hear. "Thank you for listening."

"Don't mention it."

* * *

Pitch-dark, it was. The music still enveloped him, a swift beguiling specter that seemed to sweep on from all four corners of the room, bedecked in jeweled piano notes and a feather-soft voice. Add to that, laughter speckled with mirth and jazzy cocktails fit for a smoke-filled nightclub in Soho. London, wizened and dreary, couldn't compare with the burnished images filled with airborne radio tunes sampled from passing radios that sometimes replayed in his mind. Those were relics from his childhood, the ones that he could pick out and not feel as bitter over.

Swaying slightly on the balls of his feet with his fists curled and tucked safely into his pocket, Steve opened his eyes and smiled. He had grown used to pretending over the years, had even found solace in it at the worst of times. Where empty embraces and words had failed, an imagination had cushioned certain blows. A bruised heart, a little older by now but no less wiser to some.

He'd passed by Julia on his way in, the Native girl barely acknowledging his voice amidst the laughter and music pulsating through _Iris_' polished wood and violet petals. She had sunk into the crowd before he could get any closer, winding her hair around her neck like a slipping halo descends to its use as a noose. Swathed in black silk and teetering precariously off the edge of dangerously high heels, the vision had sent him into thinking of personalities and the many things that fabricated them.

Personality, the quality or state of being a person, derived from 'personalis' in Latin, literally translating as… 'masks'.

By and by, he did try to keep her out of his mind, closing his eyes to the light-stringed guitars and velveteen voices, and opening them again to an upsettingly empty space at his side. Away from his sphere of thought, giggling couples clustered around candle-lit tables while singletons roamed their hunting ground, shot-glasses fueled with amber liquid, with an eye out for any potential suitors. A few feet further on, one hopeful attempted to charm a pretty red-haired waitress with a handful of violets stolen off one of the centerpieces. With a fluid bat of her lashes and toss of her head, the poor boy's attempt was shot down with little remorse. Steve didn't know whether to laugh or sympathize.

It was almost eleven. An hour and seven minutes 'til the morning he knew he was going to regret without having spoken to her. He would seek her out, he decided then and there, even if it would get him nowhere eventually. After a quick sojourn to the kitchen, bumping into a grinning Matt on the way, he wound his way through the groups, politely dodging a pass or two.

Soon enough, it became quite apparent that the one person he needed to find wasn't anywhere in the restaurant or on the makeshift dance-floor. Were it not for the sudden glimpse of a door closing, he would have given the entire chase up.

Outside, she stood alone, the brick wall her only support.

He approached carefully.

"I heard someone forgot their jacket. Whoever it is, their shoulders must be chilly at the moment."

Julia remained silent but hunching her back to shrug further into the strapless dress.

"Cold?"

"I'm fine."

He held out the mug, careful not to let the heat get to him. "Hot chocolate's supposed to keep the chills at bay from what I've heard. But seeing as you seem quite comfortable without it, I'll just – "

On cue, it was snatched from him, the reaction begging an amused smirk. "Perhaps not."

"You had me at 'chocolate'." She replied promptly before lifting the glass to her lips. Almost immediately, she came up spluttering.

"Did I forget to mention 'hot'?"

"My bad."

This time, the wind did pick up. Julia shivered, her fingers entwining around the drink as if desperate to keep the warmth from dwindling away. Not knowing how to begin, Steve released part of his frustration in a noisy exhale and leant beside her against the wall. To his surprise, it was she who started it. Her voice low but clear, and a question that resounded well with him.

"Ever get that feeling when you have so many things on your mind which just _have_ to be said? But you can't risk the consequences so you just stay quiet and then these questions remain in your system until they're almost a part of you."

"Oh, I wouldn't know." He replied airily for emphasis. "I always thought of myself as an open book."

If she had indeed caught his drift, then he couldn't see for sure if she had really understood his answer. But sarcasm had always been Jin's strong point, not Steve's, hinted-at disdain which everyone except the truly innocent could fully overlook.

"But what if it hurts too much to let go of some questions? Like it hurts to have your foot amputated even though you've never paid close enough attention to it at all before the accident happened?"

He drew a deep breath and looked down at her, coil of hair wound dangerously round her neck. "I'm guessing somewhere beneath those attempts at philosophy and metaphors, there's only one question that's been dying to be asked."

"Yes, there is."

"And you're not telling me because you think I already know."

_That_ was enough earn him a straight-on return for his gaze on her. Even if her smile seemed to have tightened around the corners. "Am I overestimating you, Steve?"

"To quote a certain band, whatever people say I am, that's what I'm not. Works both ways, for better or worse assumptions." He stole another envious glance at the mug between her hands. "And since we're talking music references at the moment, I bet you look good on the dance-floor so why leave before the lights come on?"

"Feeling a little blue, so I thought I might as well clear the room."

"Nice. Anyone I know?"

Her lips twisted into a muted wince before she replied 'Cat Power' and looked back down into the murky chocolate. The moment was fleeting. She smiled again, the drink still at the midway mark on the glass. He knew better. Julia had eyes like paper even if her heart wasn't an open book, twin pools betraying the sum of her emotions within their writing. If people were solely composed of words, she would have been full of ellipses and run-on sentences. Deceptively simple and complex.

What was the term?

_Contradiction_.

This time, he tried to avoid the careful 'everything alright?' spiel on purpose and brush aside the urge to tuck away the lock of hair veiling her cheek. The skin took on a dull sheen in the dark.

"Julia?"

"I don't know if I'm fine, Steve. I don't even know if I'm supposed to feel this way." She kept her stare fixed on the drink, wanting to delve right in to the bottom. "I don't understand."

Trouble was, neither did he.

"I could try, I guess. _Really_ try. And sometimes, I am okay for a while, just being me. But it pops up right out of the blue and…" She paused, unconsciously twisting the wayward lock into an unwilling corkscrew round her finger. "I manage, for the most part. But it's not so much that it happened than what hits me after it happens."

"What did happen?"

The tug she gave to her hair was rough, bordering on violent.

"We talked. At least…" She pulled harder, stretching the curl as far as it could go. "I talked."

"Stop that."

This time, he did touch her hair, tucking it away from harm's reach and took the glass away just in case. The night air had cooled her skin to an unfamiliar temperament. Again, his thoughts flew to an empty apartment not unlike his own where the only company one could keep were shadows and echoes. You could play with them both, make birds, cats and dogs from your own hands reflected against the bare walls and listen to the sound of your laughter from the void in your room. But illusions carved from nothing will amount to nothing and will remind you of everything.

"My feet hurt." He heard her murmur to herself, tottering slightly when she tried to move away. "Stupid heels."

"Why…"

The question fell apart. He knew the answer.

Shadow puppets and pretend voices that revealed more than they'd like of the shadows and echoes that darkened what they hid from mirrors. But Steve had never seen a more truer mirror of himself than the woman in front of him and Julia was swaying dangerously from her perch behind the stone walls she'd built up against trust. She had realized that too soon and was already trying to run, her smile strained from whatever weight she carried.

"I think I'll go home now."

"I'll walk you – "

"No…"

He considered himself quite lucky for catching her before she buckled to the ground. She would have flown off by now, the little sneak. Out of her tower but her heart still trapped within a closed nest of thorns. The rosebuds were closed, nipped by an early winter frost. Now that he had a closer look, he discovered the dark bags slipping above layers of peachy concealer.

"How much did you drink?"

"Enough. Please let me go home." She wriggled free, taking a few hesitant steps forward before he blocked her path. "Steve..."

"I'd said I'd walk you – "

She had him with the tears. They sprung up on their own accord and were now flowing in rivulets, colored in hues of powder and cream. Her eyes were shut tight and hidden under thick lashes but the mask was ruined. Nowhere to hide.

"Julia." He moved in closer, fingertips barely grazing the length of her naked shoulders and arms. "Julia, what's wrong?"

Steve had never seen her tremble as much as he felt her do now. Hands on her shoulders, not daring to move elsewhere for fear that she crumble and the pieces drift off into the darkest corner. With each tiny gasp that rattled her, making her shake so hard that he had to, _needed_ to hold her nearer, he settled closer to the truth behind her shadow play.

"Was it something he said?"

Her head turned by the slightest degree and then back again in one forlorn shake.

"It was everything he didn't say."

When he had dreamed of this moment, there hadn't been any tears to bind them together. Certainly no starless night, no distant harshly cheerful music in the background and no neglected chocolate growing cold by their feet. She had been smiling instead, her lips in tandem with his and the sound of real laughter bubbling from her throat. Like smoke, like plumes of bitter cigarette fumes, the dream bloomed before it twisted and thinned out, only a dream.

But he held onto her, the real broken thing, kissing his way through her hair and unraveling and echoing her pain through his arms round her, all the while pretending not to notice the shiver that pulsed through her form when she mirrored his embrace and buried her face deep into his shoulder.

She didn't look up once.

It's only a dream, he comforted himself.

_We'll awake tomorrow._


	13. Rearranging

Fic-name change :)

Inspiration(don't come easy): running up that hill, headlock, a literary influence you have to find and scraps of thoughts from a break-up.

* * *

She'd had this dream once before. While she was awake.

She was wandering through a house, not a home, skimming her fingers over cold unfamiliar tiles on the kitchen walls and palming the goosebumps molting through her skin. Draughts of air made sure the rooms kept their sepulchral warmth, none at all, as she wandered through open doors, searching for them.

And they weren't there when she called.

And they weren't there when she pleaded.

And they weren't there when she wept.

The house had only two floors which she walked through and through under the frozen stare of a clock gleaming ivory from its corner. Over tile, carpet, and linoleum, the answer was the same. An echo returning her questions with the soft care of a farewell embrace.

_Where'd you go?_

There would come a point where she found that it was her that needed to pause and listen. The doors and windows were flung open to a murky mist of clouds so low the day weighed as heavy as the past on her back. Then she would slow her steps until she moved in circles, trying to measure her distance from several focal points. One after the other, they were rejected and her balance was cast adrift 'til she settled on the next.

_Where will I find my center?_

On the final arc of the revolution, she was struck near the entrance, a lateral awning so wide it bathed the skin of her feet in a flood of moonshine. The mist whispered volumes in its frenzied silence, compelling her to step out and away from her cage in the highlands. One touch of a hand destroyed a waifish tendril of icy smoke that had clung to her, pulling her in closer. She now stood alone in a patch of earth before a set of copper gates. The color of each metal bar, each leaf of ivy strung across the lock was lost to the blinding gleam of a reflected sun buried in the clouds.

Undeterred, then daunted. A hopeless flush of courage bubbled in her chest, frothing over in spells of tremulous heartbeats. She circled her fingers around a clump of lilac buds perched on the highest corner of one bar and leaned in. The cage relented, allowing her to slip through its hold.

A road stretched on for miles but she had long since lost the heart to turn back.

* * *

How long did it take to forget a dream? How long had it taken her to forget the one where she was flying over a curved range of mossy-green mountains she'd had when she was six? All that remained was the memory of a smile creeping up on her face as she'd awoken to month of spring holidays on a Sunday morning. How long would it take until she no longer had a hold on the glow of white mist or the glint of a crystalline prison until it was only those and nothing more?

Not daring to breathe in more than she needed, Julia leaned back into the corner of the stone marker. Baek Doo-San had been a man of simple tastes, reflected in smooth clean lines of white dobuks and wood floors that shone like glass after a merciless scrubbing which often left the skin of Hwoarang's palms chafed and raw. The same desire for a life cleansed from material gain, enriched only with the fruit of honest work, was now enshrined in the wholeness of each painted letter that lined his epitaph over his grave. Like the steadfast tin soldier, Baek's legacy was marked solely by the one blackened heart he'd left behind in the ashes.

Remembering the child's tale her mother had read to her from a tome almost as old as the first memory of hearing the tale of Nahookos and Cassiopeia, Julia had wandered through the morning in a fog of clarity so sharply defined that she had committed herself to the date forgotten by all but the one with the lead heart. She'd retied the bouquet of violets offered to her by Steve, a stolen courtesy from the night before, and brought them to rest at the foot of the mould of earth. Years old, unremembered, but the only center of revolution that had brought Hwoarang his fragile-as-petals comfort. Even if he wasn't around for this pilgrimage, he would at least appreciate her thoughts.

An imperceptible twitch of her hand, then a velveteen petal between her thumb and finger. She crushed the violet, almost black with day-old thirst, and pressed the crumbling remnants to her lips for a quick one. A temporary high, a hot thing, bookbound advice of loving in the smallest doses, now and then intercepted by that repercussion in the setting sunlight. What mattered was not the thorn in her side but the spurt of pain that would follow as soon as she tugged it loose.

She had tried to bury it at first. In her private confessions to dead pieces of paper in blue-as-she-felt ink, in haphazard bits of household work and college essays, in the warmth of Steve's arms, but all she'd succeeded in was burying it further, lodging it deeper beneath her skin than she needed. Fear of pain was a normal thing, a terrible weakness, she convinced herself time and again. If she could have, she would have killed it in the fell swoop of a night anointed with alcohol's power of amnesiac judgments.

_But_

What had she been missing?

Huddling closer to herself, her back arching away from the blunt curve of a death mark, the darkness under the cover of her eyelids spasmed a chiaroscuro of electric white-tinged color. The rainbow of a migraine, a spectrum beginning from heartlocked mistakes at restaurants hued with irises and ending with rust-rimmed eyes at five in the morning. Headaches had always been the _de facto_ excuse she'd sworn by when she'd simply run out of words to argue with him before. A bottle of aspirin still lay untouched in her bedside drawer. Right next to her diary.

Waking up in her clothes from the night before, the noise from a boiling pot hissing through her brain had made each decision more compelling. To swallow the pills and feel them in her breath as a reminder of an impulse gone awry. Or to bleed the sound out on fresh new pages, in clumsy notes of overwrought prose.

_And still_

Here she was. Walking down an aisle flanked with carefully arranged bouquets resting on memorials with a valise of lilac ribbon and palatine flowers, she'd felt like a lost bride on her way to a rebellious escape. But like Dickens's Miss Havisham, the rush of glory floundered in the face of death and its consequences. Only a memory but the rejection Baek's passing had brought upon her froze Julia like the novel's character, caught between appearing as a waxwork figure or skeleton in passing, trapped in a twisted warp of grief and bitter reflections.

The rage had cooled by now, the guilt having taken over with her realizing that a dead man was no fit vessel for her anger at a living one. Hwoarang could never choose between running and hiding. Often, he couldn't quite place one's flaws from the other, his indecision eventually ending in an array of bad choices. Found life's lessons too hard to take? Run off with the wrong crowd and hide behind the unified smirk of a street army.

But then, she hadn't been anymore different from him than she'd used to think.

* * *

**3 weeks ago**

It occurred to her that she could hear the cars running into the highway from his room. With the state of his affairs as it was in these times, it became easier to imagine why he refused to stop in his tracks and take note. The reminder of escape, a dusky excuse for freedom, was right out there for him to lull his troubles to sleep.

And the price of sleep was taking on a steeper curve than dreaming. She already knew that she would be finding out soon and the prediction knotted in the pit of her chest. As if to compensate for the inevitable, the dawn of twilight, or something like it, was beginning its assault on her surroundings. The absence of light left fresh reds in dry maroons and her naked body tangled in his sheets all by herself. Alone, the room was unbearably cold. No surprise, really. Where was warmth supposed to go without its twin, the light?

They said that sex left you on a high. They said it hollowed your heart from the outside-in and filled your soul with a need so insatiable you were doomed to spend the rest of your youth in a daze of wanderlust. Julia understood all of that but could only bring to mind the sensation of being caved-in under a pile of snow. Trapped. And cold.

She exhaled, hearing the air rattle through her teeth. Was it natural not to cry when feeling this… sore. Empty. Broken? And will yourself not to look down? Will yourself not to look down…

Through some force of inertia, she dressed in the dark. It was only the effect of the aftermath and she would find time to succumb properly to it later. By sheer power of will, she would stay whole enough just to tell him how far she could go with this. How far _they_ could go. And if it was calm enough for this to ride itself out in the end.

The t-shirt was the last thing of hers she found flung on the floor. Apart from the usual mess, there was nothing that could be traced to his imprint pressed next to hers on the mattress. He'd been born with wings on his feet, that boy. Another reason for him to take flight whenever the means didn't do justice to the mistake. She mouthed a phrase silently and then out loud to the emptiness.

"Fuck and run."

She waited a while in the dark, steeling herself for days of silences and storm-thick distances that were too complex to measure. When she thought herself prepared, a hand fluttering to her heart just to make sure, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Leaning against the wall, he'd been standing outside waiting for her. The bulb cast a bleached electric sheen over them but she could read the signs beneath those downcast eyes. When they finally met hers, the floodgates opened. Blindingly clear, the truths overlapped and congealed until reality overtook.

He didn't seem to notice she was watching him through blurred vision. It hit her that he wasn't the only one born with wings in the wrong places.

"Julia…"

His voice came out softer, shakier, wavering on a plea. "Jules…"

All she knew was that looking into a mirror was too much to take.

Instincts overpowering her for the second time that day, flight taking over any fight she had in her, she turned and fled to the sanctity of her room, slamming it shut. This time, her hand clamped itself over her mouth in a bid to force down a cry. Of pain? Anger? Regret?

What if there was nothing else to lose?

What if they _had_ nothing left at all?

When Hwoarang started to rap louder on her door, begging her to come out, she clasped her shaking hands over her head in denial.

She didn't know what time it was when he stopped trying or how long it took to pass the remaining hours of the night circling about her own room, wondering, her thoughts wandering, floundering, attempting to recreate that lost balance.

But it was less than twenty-four hours later when she stumbled upon him stuffing a bag full of whatever it could hold. His gaze held hers in a tentative grip before he let it slide to the main door of what had once been a home for them both.

"_They need me, Julia."_

* * *

Even if clouds weighed the same as air, they had a knack for bearing down with heavy intent. Although her belief in chance and fate were dwindling by the day, she still counted a graveyard's silence as council.

Bowing her head, she clasped her palms in a rite of seeking forgiveness.

After everything, she wouldn't let hate claim her.


	14. Replay

Well, well, we-_ell_. How's everybody doing?

This took quite a bit and I'm still not sure if it actually warrants an M rating. Thanks to **Razer Athane** for the lemon-writing advice, although I think I messed that up too by going for my usual underhand subtlety. But I guess the rest of the chapter's okay... ish. Thanks for reading and sticking by this far! Concrit is always appreciated.

* * *

**3 weeks ago**

"Tell me when to stop."

_Tell me_. He must have said it when they'd finally hit the bed. _Tell me when_.

A whisper – or a sigh? – was hot breath on his ear from her lips; kiss-swollen. There'd been plenty of those earlier, some on her neck and jaw, the ones that'd crept lower, lower down his throat until his shirt was half-open and he kicking the door shut behind them. Then it was more and more, he was tearing out little gasps from her as his hands wandered round her waist, she'd begun to shiver from his touch and he would've ended it right there if she hadn't brushed so close he was almost ablaze.

Now? _Tell me when_. Now?

Her mouth wouldn't leave his skin and neither did he want it to stop right there. Not now. Not for him. But he could… he _would_, if she wanted. He could do that. He would, if he could.

Oh God, she was trembling. She wasn't herself, she couldn't be. He _had_ to…

She was kissing him back, her chin was nestled firm and steady in the cup of his hands, she wanted him just as much. Did he too? What had he done to deserve it?

Was anything they had worth what he needed?

They'd run out of time. It wasn't dark enough to hide. He couldn't spare himself the thought of leaving; not with her arms circling and intertwining in a noose round his neck, or her face buried in the nook where neck met shoulder. Not when she thought he wanted this or if he knew they were taking this too far. Not without thinking if he would need to go back.

He had her locked here; she had him too. For now.

She was soft, quiet except for when his fingers hit a spot that deep inside and her body pliant to his every movement. They could abandon those thorny, painful questions, pretend that this was what they could make of it. He wouldn't have made the most of her heart pounding against his hand anchoring himself to her if he hadn't wanted this to work out for them. The sudden sharp gasp she'd let out as soon as he'd pushed in sent a pang like – he didn't know. He didn't know if he could ever… with anyone else…

But he kissed her again, harder, allowing his tongue to glaze over hers and his body to mirror her cling as he let himself fall away from that darker place in his head. He swallowed his own name when she released it, alight from a flare of ecstasy. She still held on weakly until he collapsed exhausted, uncertain. By the time she fell asleep with one arm splayed loose over his hip, the sun had started to lower itself into the shadows over the road and J's message was making sure he wouldn't succumb as easily.

When he couldn't take it anymore, he pulled away, let her head fall onto a pillow and tried to ignore the blood spotting the inside of her thighs. The fever had been lit and the wait would be worse.

His pacing took him from one end of their apartment to where it faced away from the highway. If he opened the window, he'd smell the smoky spice from the Lebanese bakery in the next building. Fresh bread and meat simmering in sauces he couldn't name in words. But it wasn't home, not like the one he remembered. If he could even place that term somewhere in his childhood, that is.

He hadn't really known freedom. That was one answer he'd just come up with, even if it didn't fit quite right into what he'd spent the last few days – or weeks, months maybe – trying to define. Some things like dreams, wishes, hopes, ambitions – perhaps people too – weren't weightless enough to be let loose without another thing – someone, he guessed – having to let them go.

What felt like a long time ago, he'd had a few of his own to hang onto. Then there had been his parents, All The Trouble (the 'grown-up' name for it) that followed, good times, bad times, the best days, the worst days and he'd forgotten. Somewhere, there was probably some kid lucky enough to be living up to be all those things he'd let fly away because he'd grown tall enough to realize that they wouldn't be carrying him anywhere higher. Even the sky had a limit.

Now he owed a couple of other kids those same dreams because theirs had been lost to a storm too soon. He owed a few more for keeping him safe inside from being struck down like those same kids. He owed a girl his life. He owed a wonderful, beautiful, perfect young woman her happiness.

He closed the window, feeling heavier than he could hold up.

Later on when he saw that woman stare back at him with the fragile child in her eyes, he took the slamming of her door and the little cry she failed to stifle as his omens.

He… should've stopped trying.

Night fell and he packed a bag full of clothes, repeating his new mantra until the only way she could reply was with a teary silence. The blood would be wiped off, so would the tears and the marks of her nails on his back would fade. It would all go away in time.

He hoped.

* * *

Hwoarang woke up from a deep sleep. There had been no dreams but the threads of one in particular.

His heart jumped when he realized his phone was ringing.

"H'lo?"

"A man called Dante once mentioned that it was necessity that brought him here, not pleasure. Please tell me that's the case with you."

_What? Why? You too?_

"Steve…"

"Just tell me if this is really all worth it to you. And her."

"… You've seen her."

"It's almost been a month, she won't admit it but she's in _pieces_."

"She spoke to you…"

"And you too. What are you hiding?"

"Nothing. Everything."

"Shit, you're out plastered in some hole, right?"

"No…" Although that might've been a good idea. Hangovers were good distractions. "Sober as you."

"Huh."

"Honest."

The static seemed to rustle from what he could hear. Steve must be shaking his head.

"Well, talk to her soon, will you? Tell her the truth, tell her everything, even… look, I know it's hard to just… bare it all like that. But you've known her longer than I have, longer than anyone else so at least give her some credit there. It's the only thing she – "

"Do you love her?"

Hwoarang had sensed this silence before he'd raised the question. He was learning fast in reading the gaps in someone else's cover-ups. After all, when it came filling them in, he'd had the best teacher.

"I care about her."

"You didn't answer me."

"She cares about you."

"_Yes_ or _no_, Fox."

"That's nothing to _you_."

"Me? I don't mi – I don't care, okay? Go do whatever the hell you want."

Another sigh, goddamn, another one. He was too tired for this.

"I don't think I'll hold you to that, 'Rang. But…"

Really, what now? He wanted Julia to be happy without him and he just needed to be miserable alone.

"… What?"

"I'm your friend too. I _was_ your friend first before things… got this complicated. No favors but keep your head up, alright? Just that. The last thing I want to hear is that you went and – "

"I'm tired, Steve. I mean it."

"So am I. So do I."

* * *

The phone was switched off and tucked into his pocket for the rest of the day. He would've followed his instincts but tossing it down the closest drain hadn't seemed like the wisest alternative when it came to reminding certain people about his intentions of disappearing off their side of the planet. Steve had barged in without a proper 'hello' so he'd hung up without saying a decent 'goodbye'. That was that.

He hadn't expected J to be this observant through that lingering cloud of smoke though.

"The fuck's wrong with you?"

"Your cigarettes. They're killing me."

"At least lung cancer's a slow death."

"Bastard."

J walked loose without dragging his feet. He wasn't tied down to earth but Hwoarang never quite got why the man refused to fly. Maybe he liked it better down here. Maybe he'd never had wings to begin with.

Today was their 'lucky' day. One of the local entertainment industry hot-shots thought that organizing a cute little fete in the middle of a then-empty residential parking lot would quell the gang-bang rumors buzzing around. One look at some of the characters manning the stalls had already started a swarm of new ones: man, this dude must be loaded if there'd been that much left for enough bribes! Just how many 'Get Out of Jail Free' cards were passed under the board?

Hwoarang didn't think the guy behind the air-rifle deck was that bad. He had red hair too. J snorted and said he was broke. Not broke enough for business? No, but broke enough for not wasting green on a kid's game.

Switching on his best smirk, Hwoarang slid a note across but faltered when the man looked up at him head-on. One raisin-black eye stared him down fully but the left was stuck in its place.

"Did that happen while…" He let the eyebrow do the talking.

"Nah, not with this toy bullshit." Half-blind Red tossed one of these into his inexperienced hands. "Well? Go on. Hit three in a row and get a giant alligator. Two'll get you a pansy teddy bear."

Woah, hey! This thing was heavy! And longer than it'd looked from over there… jeez, how do you get your thumb round… wherever…

Was that a leer?

"Oh, you've never handled one of the big boys in town?"

"That's how I get to walk around free while you guys live it up in a cell with an open-air toilet bowl. You must _really_ get your kicks from that…"

"Pretty boy like you'd be a hit in there. Always some use for a piece of ass like that."

At this point, Hwoarang shifted his focus from that sharp-toothed grin to the first bottle that appeared on the gun's viewfinder. He imagined red hair flopping about from the top of its neck and fired. Missed.

So did the second. The last blew a hole in the cotton-stuffed gut of a pink Valentine bear.

"You were shaking too much." J had to state the embarrassingly obvious. "Your hands were – "

"Yeah, I fuckin' got it already! That – "

Whatever he'd wanted to say, the cracker hit its mark first.

It was ten years of solid Taekwondo training that saved Hwoarang from another collection of burn-marks. They would have been of the painfully visible kind had he not spent hours dodging and parrying strike after strike delivered from Baek. But he was an attacker all-round; he just needed to find his foolish prey through the fog of smoke and stray sparks.

"Watch it!"

Ten years of training had never prepared him for being the one defended from a strike _meant for him_.

The bottle flew apart in a flurry of green glass and blood streaming down the side of J's head but hell, he'd seen the kid wriggle his way through the crowd. The boy – thirteen, twelve, he couldn't care fuck for how young! – was fast, yet Hwoarang had longer legs and enough rage in him to shatter a spine twice this brat's height. He lunged forward and tackled him hard on the asphalt. Turned that face around, he wanted to see it… and recognized the sight.

"_Fuck_, do you guys ever learn?"

Now he really wanted to put that Native American scalping to the test…

A rough pair of hands prized his from the kid's collar, forced them behind his back and snapped a pair of hand-cuffs over his wrists.


End file.
